Against All Odds
by Sandiane Carter
Summary: He never thought it could hurt like this. AU for 5x05, "Probable Cause."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: So this is, um. A little bit different compared to what I usually write. Yeah. Let's just face it, people. This is angst. Deep dark angst. All I can say is - you're gonna have to trust me.

**Disclaimer**: Let me check... Nope. Still not mine.

* * *

Crouched in the seat, a hand pressed to the trickle of blood on his forehead, Castle hears Kate being thrown to the ground. Her gun clatters distinctly on the concrete. Shit.

"Castle, I got your girl!" Tyson boasts, breathless. "You watching? I want you to see this."

Of course he does. Rick takes in a small breath, tries to calculate where exactly Kate's weapon landed. Somewhere on her side of the car, surely - against a tire? He thinks he heard the gun skid for a second before something stopped it.

"You think that I'd let you live?" Tyson goes on. "After everything you done? Castle! Come o-on, I want you to watch."

The writer tunes him out, carefully slips out of the car through Kate's still-open door. Quiet, he has to be quiet; the faintest of sounds and it will all be over. The bastard will do as he says. _Shoot_ her.

Rick shuffles forward on his hands and knees, stifles a relieved sigh when he finds Kate's Glock, sleek and deadly and perfect against the back tire.

Good. Good. He's armed now.

He gets to his feet as silently as possible, hears the pause in Tyson's speech - the man probably just realized that Castle wasn't in the car anymore. Rick steps out from behind the trunk, doesn't hesitate.

He knows what he has to do.

"Over here," he calls, and the moment Tyson turns, he shoots him in the right shoulder, the only place where he doesn't risk hitting Kate instead.

He fires and fires again, cold rage burning in his throat and fingers, and stops only when he realizes things aren't working out the way he hoped. Instead of releasing his hold on Beckett, Tyson clutches her tighter as he stumbles back, closer and closer to the edge of the bridge and she seems too stunned to notice-

"Kate!"

But his call comes too late, and his moves are too slow; in the time it takes him to reach them she's already falling along with Tyson, her eyes meeting his for a split second as she tries, fails, to catch herself.

_Castle_, he can read on her lips before she vanishes from his sight. He gets to the end of the bridge and falls onto his knees, peering at the dark, murky waters of the river, panting. Kate-

He almost jumps right then; the only thing that holds him back is the knowledge that he would probably be no help to her. Instead he hunts for his phone with trembling fingers, hits speed-dial five, his left hand a fist against his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck. Kate. She looked hazy and disoriented and Tyson must have knocked her out somehow, hard enough that she wasn't able to keep herself from falling, and now she's underwater and maybe even _drowning- _

"Esposito."

"Kate fell from the bridge," Castle sputters, can't stop the incoherent flow of words now leaving his mouth. "Tyson ambushed us - he ran his car into ours and then tried to shoot us, and she got out with her gun and somehow he got the drop on her-"

"Whoa, wait. What? Castle-"

"There's no time," he hammers out, frustrated and desperate. "Esposito. Beckett is in the Hudson River with a head wound and Jerry Tyson."

The detective swears loudly on the other hand, says something to Ryan, then asks sharply, "Where are you?"

"Triborough Bridge. The Harlem River section. You need to - you need to bring divers - I can't even _see _her-"

"We're on our way, Castle," comes Ryan's mild, soothing voice. "Don't do anything stupid, okay? Calling in for back-up right now. You just - sit tight, man. We'll be right there."

The line goes silent and he drops his right hand, horror digging a slow pit inside him. Fifty feet below, the river flows relentlessly, a continuous, opaque stream of grey that no matter how much he stares, he can't see through.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, at the back of a police van, waiting for the divers to resurface. It's been - a while.

The morning is dull, daylight barely making it through the clouds. He doesn't really notice.

They wouldn't let him come along. He's a good diver, PADI certified; he's done it a dozen times with Alexis.

Still they said no.

"Hey, Castle."

Ryan circles around the car, sits next to him, but Rick can't even gather the energy to return the greeting, let alone look at his friend. He simply stares blankly ahead, his whole body still, frozen in wait.

They're going to find her.

"So... The divers haven't found anybody yet," Ryan says softly, cautiously. "No Tyson, no Beckett..."

"I saw them fall," the writer states, no emotion to it. Only fact. He saw her fall and he couldn't-

"I know you did," Kevin answers, his voice so gentle. "And we believe you, of course. It's just - the currents might have driven them further, and we have no way of figuring out where exactly-"

"Surely there must be some currents expert who'll be able to help us," Castle says, some life returning to him as he turns his head to Ryan. He can do that - hire an expert, whatever the cost, and a team of divers that will search every section of the river Kate might've been driven to. He's rich; he won't give up-

"It's not just that," the blue-eyed detective admits reluctantly. "Castle... It was late, and the water was cold. And you said Beckett got her head banged pretty badly. What the divers said is - the more time she spent in the river, the less likely it is that she actually pulled through."

Actually pulled through.

What?

He stares at Ryan, who rubs a hand against the back of his neck, averts his eyes.

"This is Beckett we're talking about," he says, and his voice is something foreign, cutting and sharp.

"I know, I know." Kevin lifts his hands in surrender. "And I don't want to give up hope either, but-"

"Then don't," Castle says, standing up to put an end to the conversation. He walks away, his hands fisted in his pockets, his heart burning in his chest.

She didn't give up on him.

He's not giving up on her.

* * *

He knows what they're saying behind his back, the looks and the whispers. He's only been to the precinct a handful of times since the bridge, but it's always the same.

They think he's crazy.

Ryan and Esposito do a better job of hiding it than the others, but he still sees the looks they share, those sorrowful little presses of their mouths. As if they're mourning for him. As if they think he's dead, too.

But Kate isn't dead.

And he doesn't think Jerry Tyson is, either.

He's still paying divers to investigate the bottom of the Hudson, following the map of the currents that the hydrographer, James Lewis, drew for him about two weeks ago. There've been no results yet, and he doesn't really expect any, since he doesn't think either of them is dead - but better safe than sorry.

He walks out of the elevator and ignores every cop who turns to look at him, doesn't let it alter his step. Ryan and Esposito are at their desks when he strides into the bullpen, and it makes Kate's deserted chair seem even more abandoned.

He grits his teeth. "Hi guys," he says, aiming for nonchalant and failing spectacularly. Ryan gives him that little smile that reeks of pity, blue eyes filled with understanding; Esposito glances at him appraisingly.

_Haven't given up yet? _his face seems to say.

Indignation surges in Castle's chest, but he knows better than to give way to it. Been there, done that. "I've come to pick up a few things from Beckett's desk," he offers by way of explanation, plopping down into Kate's chair. He sees something flicker across Javier's face, anger maybe, or annoyance.

Good, he thinks with a perverse pleasure. So there _is_ some sense of loyalty left there, no matter how easily those two seem to have given up on her.

He opens her bottom drawer, lets his fingers run over the documents she keeps in there. Where her hands have been. He didn't lie to the guys, but he hasn't told them the whole truth either.

The truth is...

He just misses her.

And the more time passes, the more desperate he grows for any evidence that he didn't dream her, that they really did share those wonderful months together. That's the thing he's most terrified of - that he'll forget the taste of her mouth smiling under his, the feel of her clever hands over his bare skin, the sound of her laugh when he asked if he could use her handcuffs.

It's only been twenty-two days, and already he thinks he might go crazy with how much, how painfully he misses her.

There's nothing in the bottom drawer worth taking with him; he closes it, opens the middle one. He knows she's kept his paper clip chain in there, and his breath stutters when his thumb brushes over it, struck by a vivid memory of the way she looked at him in the early days of their partnership. Frustrated, pissed off and - yeah - intrigued, too.

And turned-on. He remembers the sharp tug of it in his gut, knows she felt it too.

God, he needs her so badly.

He allows himself one slow blink and pushes it all back, can't allow himself to appear weak in her workplace. In the privacy of his own home, yes; but not in front of all those non-believers. He shuts the middle drawer, leaving the paper clip chain where it is, and finally moves on to the top drawer, to the one item he's been wanting all along.

Her stick man.

His fingers curl over it and he feels that physical ache for her thump in his chest, has to breathe through it carefully, in and out, in and out. _Even on the worst day, there's a possibility for joy._

He wants to believe her, he really does, but the joy has yet to make an appearance since the night on the bridge. Still. The stick man disappears into his coat pocket.

"Mr. Castle."

His head swivels up at Gates' voice, a gentleness to it that makes his stomach churn. He gets to his feet. His relationship with the captain has been strange lately; her dislike of him seems to have disappeared along with Kate, and every time they meet is an awkward, hesitant dance. "Sir."

She studies him, her eyes dark and knowing, and it takes an effort not to squirm, to keep standing with his back straight, his chin held firm.

"Detective Beckett is not here," she says, soft, almost regretful. The simple words are a punch to his gut.

"I'm aware," he answers, struggling to keep his voice even.

"You didn't come looking for inspiration, I presume," Gates goes on, and shit, his throat clogs up.

He shakes his head.

"So why?" He hears the unspoken tail of her question, _why do this to yourself,_ and he's hit by the staggering realization that Captain Gates is worried about him.

For a long moment, he stares at her and she stares right back. It feels like everyone in the bullpen is holding their breaths. Maybe they are.

"I was just here to pick up some things from her desk," he admits at last, feels with his hand for the stick man in his pocket. His fingers rough along a twig, an arm maybe, and some courage seeps back into him. "And ask if you'd heard anything."

The captain's eyes narrow; her mouth tightens and she looks away. If he didn't know any better, he might think she's struggling against tears. "You would be the first to know if we had," she says. There's an underlying current of reproach in her words, and he doesn't have an adequate response, doesn't have anything.

"Okay," he murmurs. Out. He needs to get out of here. Now. "Well - I should...go, I guess."

He smiles, knows by the feel of it that it's all wrong, and he's making an exit when Gates's imperious voice calls him back. "Mr. Castle." He pauses, doesn't turn back. He'll break if he does. "You know that there is very little chance by now that we will hear anything at all."

Yes, yes. That's what they've all been telling him.

He doesn't _want_ to know.

"I have to go," he says, his voice thick, stuck in his chest. And then he nearly runs for the elevator, has to put the most distance he can between himself and those people, that place where her presence is stronger than anywhere else.

Kate.

_Where are you?_

* * *

He asks favors of everyone he knows. Jordan Shaw, Fallon, even square-jawed Sorenson - after all, the man was once in love with Beckett. He gets the CIA, the FBI to issue bulletins with Tyson's face, and Kate's too, but none of the calls they get ever leads to anything tangible. It's like 3XK and Beckett have vanished from the face of the earth.

His theory - which he stubbornly clings to - is that they vanished together.

The bridge was a setup; he's certain now that Tyson played them all along, that the whole case wasn't intended to frame him, but rather to direct him and Kate in the direction where 3XK wanted them.

It was never about him. What Tyson wanted was to be left alone, disappear so he could start killing again - and what better vanishing act than a fall into the Hudson River, his body riddled with bullets?

What Rick can't decide is whether Kate falling into the river was part of the plan, or if Tyson had to improvise. Doesn't matter, he knows, and his heart always squeezes in his chest when he gets to that part of his reasoning. Because if they're both alive, and Kate hasn't come forward, hasn't been sighted by anyone in the country - then it means Tyson has her. Locked away somewhere, caged and vulnerable, going through God knows what.

And sometimes, late at night, when he's alone in bed and misses her the most, he wonders if, maybe, it wouldn't be more merciful to pray for her death.

* * *

Esposito calls him two months after the bridge.

Kate Beckett is officially missing. There can be no death certificate, no closure until a body is found; Castle finds relief in that.

But not everyone feels that way. They're having a wake, Esposito says, to honor Kate's memory, get a chance to say goodbye. It was Jim Beckett's idea, but everyone is coming, Lanie, Ryan, Madison. Even Gates.

"You should come, bro," he tells Castle over the phone, and his voice is everything that Rick has grown sick of, the judgement and condemnation, the deep-rooted annoyance because he won't move on, won't chorus with them all and pray for Kate's soul.

"I'll see," he answers vaguely, even though his decision's already made.

He won't go.

She's not dead.

* * *

He starts a new investigation on his smart board. He gathers every possible piece of information about 3XK, his family history, the places where he's been, the houses he might be tempted to find shelter in.

They've got to be _somewhere._

He finds Jerry Tyson - he finds Kate.

That much is clear to him.

He reads the papers meticulously, saves every article that mentions a murder even remotely similar to Tyson's MO. Sometimes the murderer is caught, sometimes not; Castle travels over the US to meet with the sheriff or detective in charge of the investigation, personally jots down their feelings about the case.

He hasn't written a word in months.

And then - Alexis is offered a place in an exchange program in France. She comes into his office one night, when he's already had a little too much to drink, and she explains it all. She wants to go; _once in a lifetime_, she says.

It's not all there is to it, though. She wants - she wants him to go with her.

"Please, Dad."

There's hope in her blue eyes, that fierce determination to _save him_, and he doesn't know what to do. How does a man tell their own child he doesn't want to be saved?

His silence seems to speak for him. Alexis jerks her head away, the line of her jaw working like when she was a little girl, wouldn't tell him what Meredith had done.

"What do you hope to accomplish here anyway?" she says bitterly after a moment, her eyes finding his again. "What is this really about, Dad? You can't still be kidding yourself, not after all this time. I know it's hard, and I know you miss her - you loved her, and she was an amazing woman - but...please. You just have to accept that she's gone, and she's not coming back."

"Alexis."

His daughter gets a defiant look on his face, and he winces inwardly, braces himself for what's coming.

"She's dead," Alexis says, spitting the words out. "She's dead, you hear me? Kate Beckett's dead. You're not gonna get to kiss her again, you'll never hold her in your arms, you'll never hear her voice again." She blinks, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek, but she doesn't stop. "She's gone. But I'm not. And Gram's not. And you have to open your eyes, and see what's still here, Dad. I'm still here. I'm still here, and I want you back," she finishes quietly, arms wrapped around her waist. "I want my Daddy back."

He doesn't know how long he stands there, watching Alexis struggle not to cry in the middle of their living room, unable to go to her. He feels like one of those automated toys, but without the batteries. Can't function.

"You should go to France," he murmurs in the end, can't offer her anything better than that.

Alexis looks like he's slapped her. Her betrayed face digs deep into his heart, another crack that will never heal; she gasps a sob, her eyes startled, disbelieving, and then she spins on her heels and runs upstairs, her long red hair flying after her.

He watches her go, remains immobile for another moment before he sweeps the wetness off his cheeks.

He can't be that man anymore.

* * *

It takes Jim Beckett to break him.

It's a Saturday night; Castle's been going through his information, desperate for some connection to pop up, a glass of Scotch cradled in his palm.

He barely remembers the time when he used to spend his Saturday nights at fancy parties, events that Paula would get him invitations for, so the knock on his door startles him a little. His mother still lives at the loft in theory, but she's been spending more and more time at her acting school - he gets the feeling that she doesn't want to abandon him, but she also can't take his newfound obsession.

She has a key anyway.

He sways a little when he lifts from his office chair - that whiskey's lovely but treacherous - and slowly makes his way to the door, doesn't even bother to check who it is. He yanks the door open and then stumbles back a step, truly surprised.

The memory of the last time when Jim came to him rises unimpeded, and the bitter taste of melancholy is in his mouth. If only there was a Kate to save from herself now.

"Jim," he acknowledges, voice catching in his throat.

The man looks at him, those piercing blue eyes that aren't Beckett's in shape or color, but have something of her anyway, maybe in the calm, steady way they regard people.

"Hi, Rick. May I come in?"

Castle wordlessly shifts, making room for the older man, and lets the heavy door close behind them. There's something implacable in the low thump, and a shiver runs down the writer's spine when he turns to Jim Beckett.

"You, um - you want a drink?" he asks, raising his Scotch glass in example before he remembers-

Shit, he's such a dick.

"I'm fine," Jim says with a thin smile, like he can actually read Castle's thoughts. "Don't worry."

Rick nods, feeling like an asshole, lowers his eyes under Mr. Beckett's acute scrutiny.

"You look older than me," the man says abruptly, some of that Beckett sarcasm dancing at the back of his eyes.

Castle blurts out a laugh, does a terrible job of it because it's been long, so very long. But it's a laugh.

"Thanks."

They stand awkwardly in the space next to the kitchen, and he could offer Jim a seat, but somehow he doubts the man would take it. Instead he waits, keeps his breathing even, his body poised for the blow.

"I didn't want to come," Jim says gravely, his eyes averted now. He's looking at the window, into the starless night, but Rick lifts a surprised gaze on him. "I felt like it was - hypocritical of me, you know. Drowning my sorrow in the bottle, hurting Katie like I did. Seems unfair of me to be giving any sort of lesson."

He runs a hand down his face, letting out a long sigh, and Castle waits for the rest of the story.

"But Katie loved you," Jim declares, looking Rick in the eye now. "And I've seen for myself how good you were for her. You're a good man, Rick. And I ought to try and keep you from destroying your life like I nearly destroyed mine."

He needs to stop using the past tense when he talks about Kate. He needs to-

"She wouldn't have wanted that for you," the older man says, shaking his head. "And I know it sounds like a stupid phrase, that you're thinking _how could he possibly know what she wanted_, but I knew my daughter, Rick. I knew the kind of person she was, and she... she was in love with you. She cared for you more deeply than I've ever seen her care for anyone, and she never would have wanted you to be so miserable."

_Then she shouldn't have left me,_ Castle wants to say, but even in his head it sounds childish and pathetic.

Jim gives him a long look, probably assessing the effect of his words, and - what is it with Beckett folks that give them the ability to read him so easily?

"I've heard that...you're still trying to find her," he says, his brow knitting thoughtfully. "That you're convinced that she's still alive. I wasn't sure I believed it, but I do now."

_Convinced. _Castle regrets those three glasses of Scotch; everything is affecting him too much, hitting him where the flesh is tender and swollen, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

"I don't know what I would have done," Jim admits, almost talking to himself. "If they hadn't found Johanna's body, if I'd never known... I probably would have gone nuts. But, Rick, the only thing I can give you here is my own conviction that - that my daughter is dead. I think that she drowned in the river that night," he says quietly, his voice rough as he forces the words out.

No. No.

"Let's be honest. Why else would she not have contacted us? Do you really think she's being held by that man, Jerry Tyson? Whom you yourself put a round of bullets into? And nobody would've caught sight of either of them in the last ten months?"

"She...she could have amnesia," Castle offers, weakly, knows he sounds like a desperate man.

Jim presses his mouth together, so much Beckett in the light tilt of his face, the compassionate eyes - Rick's going to throw up.

"I think she's dead, son," he says gently, laying a hand over Castle's forearm. "I think she's dead, and she never meant to take you into that darkness with her."

Fuck - fuck, he's going to cry. He's going to - no, _no, Kate_...

"Let it go, Rick," Jim encourages. "Let her go."

Castle makes a sound that he had no idea he could make, the cry of a wild beast left to die in the woods, his chest expanding with all the things he can no longer contain, how much he misses her, how he loved her and no one could ever come close, no, no one-

And then the tears are spilling hot and fast on his cheeks, his heart breaking, shattered into a thousand pieces, and he thought her absence was painful before but really he had no idea, no idea how the thought of a life without her would _rip him apart_, just like that.

He's vaguely aware of Jim's solid hug; some remote part of him is struck by the incongruity of it, how he's never had a dad, never really needed one until now, and the only reason Jim Beckett is here at all is because the link between them is broken. Severed forever.

Kate.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** First of all, let me thank everybody who reviewed. I can't even tell you how much your words of encouragement and appreciation mean to me. Secondly - a few clarifications. Yes, this is a multi-chapter story. I think the final number should be somewhere between 15 and 20 chapters. I'm going to post every three days, but I'm making an exception for this second chapter because you guys have been so awesome, and I don't want to leave your hearts broken for too long :).

**Disclaimer**: In my dreams I own Castle. And then I wake up.

* * *

When he's a little less broken, a little more put together, he books plane tickets for Paris.

Jim's right.

He needs to get his shit together. He can't do this to his daughter; he can't abandon her, not when he's the only stable thing she's ever had in her life.

He might not feel much like a dad right now, but he can at least try. He can show her that he's trying, that she's still the center of his world. Even when his world has shattered to a thousand pieces.

It's the end of summer; when he finally steps out of the metro at the stop where Alexis said she'd be waiting for him, the air is fresh and crisp, the leaves a delicate harmony of green and pale orange.

His daughter's red hair is as recognizable as ever, but - wow - she's cut it. It's now in an adorable bob around her face, and he thinks maybe she's lost weight, unless it's the haircut that makes her look thinner, so elegant and...French.

So grown-up.

"Hi, Dad," she says tentatively, approaching him with a smile on her lips, but a wary look in her blue eyes.

It's only then that he realizes what he's done, what his careless behavior must have felt like to her. Oh, god. He's broken them, hasn't he? Or he might have if his daughter didn't have the most loving, forgiving heart on the entire planet. Out of nowhere a memory surges, twelve-year-old Alexis complaining about not being able to hold a grudge, and then he's crushing her in his arms, his cheek crushed against her temple.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, over and over, can't believe- "Alexis. Oh, pumpkin. Alexis."

She makes a breathy little sound against his shoulder. At first he thinks it's a sob, but then her face turns into his, her lips pressed into his cheek, and he can feel her smile.

Oh, he's missed this.

"Dad," she says, and there's so much relief, so much joy pouring out of her.

He loosens his arms around her, has to take a step back so he can look, feed off her bright, beautiful energy. God, his daughter. Thank you, thank you.

"You cut your hair," he observes, can't force anything but those silly words past his throat.

She laughs a little, gives a self-conscious little tilt of her head. "I know. Weird, huh? I'm still trying to get used to it."

She runs a hand over the exposed skin of her neck, a flash of that shy little girl she once was, and Castle finds himself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in months.

"I love it," he says honestly. "It's gorgeous. Très chic," he adds, making good use of what little French he knows. His accent is terrible, of course, but his daughter laughs again and beams at him.

And he thinks, maybe, maybe-

his life is still worth living after all.

* * *

Being back in New York City is both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because his daughter has made a life for herself in Paris, and no matter how much she tried to include him, to be there to show him around, she had classes and work and he ended up spending a lot of time on his own, simply walking around the city, imagining what Kate would think of this church, whether she would love that street.

He can't seem to help himself.

So New York is good, yes, except he's lonely here. He hasn't been in touch with Ryan and Esposito, and he's not sure what sort of welcome he would receive if he were to contact the guys now. He almost does, his thumb hovering over the green button below Ryan's number, but then he chickens out of it, buries his iphone into his pocket instead. He's fine. He'll...

He'll watch TV. There.

TV's good. Safe. Doesn't require the sort of human interaction he used to be so good at, and apparently can't handle now. But nothing interesting is on, and while he was able to sit through anything before - even those terrible reality shows where couples search for their perfect house - now it just makes him restless.

He could probably put a DVD on, but instead he just turns the whole system off, goes to his computer. He's shot Alexis a quick text saying he'd arrived safely, and he sees when he opens his inbox that she emailed him all the pictures she took. She bought herself a fancy camera - new hobby of hers - and they had fun doing all sorts of weird poses in front of the Eiffel tower, the Louvre pyramid, the Luxembourg gardens.

He skims through them, smiling at the most ridiculous ones, and it makes it all the more painful when he finally looks up from his laptop to find the loft silent and deserted.

He'd thought his mother might be here, but maybe she has better things to do than to welcome her son home. Her acting school has really picked up over the last few months, and she found an apartment closer to it, moved out before he left for Paris. She asked him a thousand times if it was okay with him, if he was sure, and since she turned a deaf ear to his reassurances he ended up telling her that it was about damn time she stopped living at his expense.

Yeah. He should probably call her and apologize.

Maybe tomorrow.

This would be a perfect time to write, he reflects, stretching his legs under his desk. If he were still a writer, that is. He's systematically deleted all emails from Gina for the last couple months, because he can't take her constant harassing. He knows that he's broken his contract, knows that he was supposed to submit a manuscript last September, but what the hell can he do?

The words won't come. He's not sure they'll ever come again.

Huh. He sees as he scrolls down that he's also got a few emails from Paula that he hasn't even opened. He's tempted to leave them untouched, but he's actually had a pretty good day, so...now might be the time to do the right thing. He quickly reads through them - invitations to parties, mostly, accompanied by Paula's colorful exhortations to go and have fun - and when his eyes land on the date of the last one, he realizes that it's tonight.

Seven pm, formal dress required. He glances at the clock: it's only four. Plenty of time to make up his mind.

Does he want to go?

It can't be worse than sitting here alone, wallowing in misery because he misses both Kate and his daughter. Yeah. Why not? Besides, he's got a few tuxes in his closet that would probably be more than happy to see daylight again.

* * *

The car service, the ride in the luxurious elevator, the forced smile of the maid as she opens the door - everything feels off, wrong. Like stepping in someone else's shoes.

Why did he bother?

He's not that guy anymore; he hasn't written a line since Kate fell from that bridge, and it's not like he needs to maintain the reputation, the public persona he once had. Firing Paula is what he should do, instead of-

"Rick Castle."

He turns with a surprised flutter of his heart, moved by the genuine tenderness he hears in that once-familiar voice. Well. That's unexpected.

"Kyra."

She smiles, her eyes soft as she regards him; her hair is arranged into artful waves, a green, siren-like dress wrapped around her body. She looks stunning, if a little forlorn.

"Didn't expect to find you here," he says, just as she observes, "I thought you'd given up on events like this."

They share one of these half-awkward, half-amused laughs, and she takes a sip of champagne - to try and hide the blush on her cheeks, maybe.

"I had. I have. I-" he throws his hands up, puzzled at himself. "I've no idea what I'm doing here."

Kyra gives him a knowing grin. "Well. I'm here because I had to escape my mother's claws for a few hours, or there might've been another murder for the NYPD to solve."

The moment the words come out of her mouth, her smile falls off her face, eyes widening as she realizes what she's said. So - she knows. Of course.

He doesn't want to talk about it.

"How come your mother's staying with you?" he asks instead, remembering the opulent SoHo apartment that Mrs. Blaine always took such pride in. He can't quite believe the Blaines would sell and move out of the city-

Kyra's eyes flick down, a brief flutter of lashes that would have flipped his heart in his chest when he was twenty-one. "She's not," she confesses in a low voice. "I - I'm the one that's been staying with her." He knits his eyebrows, opens his mouth - then wonders if he really should ask. Kyra reads him easily, though, and answers his unvoiced question with a little shrug. "Greg and I are getting a divorce." She's never been a good actress. Despite her nonchalant act, the hurt shines through her voice.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, meaning it. He thought- "You guys seemed pretty perfect for each other." And so in love.

She presses her mouth together, looks obstinately at her glass. "Yeah, well. I guess these things happen." And then she lifts her chin, meets his gaze with that openness he's always loved about her. "I'm sorry about Kate, too."

Shit. The air suddenly feels heavy, his throat too raw, and he just-

Shouldn't time make it easier?

"Yeah," is the only thing he manages to push out. Ridiculous.

"Were you guys..." Kyra doesn't finish her sentence, but she doesn't need to. He knows what she means.

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, we'd been - together - for five months. It was still-"

New? Wonderful? Fragile?

There are no words that can quite capture it, so he doesn't bother trying to find them. She can probably hear it all in his voice anyway, the crushed hopes and the longing he can't even attempt to conceal. Over a year.

It's been over a year, and still he misses her like he did on that very first day, clouds blanketing the sky above the bridge.

Kyra's fingers come around his, light and warm, and he startles, lifts his eyes to hers. She looks - she looks like she's hurting for him, like she understands, and it soothes something deep inside him. A need for company, compassion, that he wasn't even aware of.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and there's such sadness, such disenchantment in the smile she gives him in return. "You wanna get out of here?" he asks suddenly, pushed by a desire to see something else in her eyes than this bone-deep weariness. He can't help but remember the way they were at twenty, smart and happy and so arrogant, confident that they could be anything they wanted, anything they set their minds to.

What he wouldn't give to have that back.

Kyra lifts her eyebrows at him. "And go where?"

He shrugs, the answer falling from his mouth naturally. "The roof."

A slow grin spreads on her face, that twinkle in her eyes that makes her look ten years younger. "Maybe it's not open anymore."

"Worth a try," he says, injecting a little challenge to his voice. "Unless of course you think we're too old..."

She narrows her eyes at him. "Lead the way."

* * *

They end up spending the whole night there, huddled together for warmth, just talking. Kyra's pretty great to talk to; he'd kind of forgotten. She knows how to listen, what to say to keep the conversation going. She also shares just enough to keep him on his toes, make him want more, in a way that is both Beckett-like and un-Beckett-like.

Kyra's more deliberate than Kate, he thinks. It's not that she does it on purpose - or well, maybe she does? Not consciously, but yes, on purpose.

She knows how to tease a man's curiosity, leave him wanting.

Yeah. Maybe she and Beckett have that in common, actually. And he needs to stop drawing parallels.

"So what happened with you and Greg?" he asks quietly when he feels he can ask, and she might actually give him an answer. Her fingers curl against his, and she lets out a long sigh, rests her head onto his shoulder. He steals a sideways look, realizes with a pang that there's a lone tear rolling down her cheek. Jeez, he sucks.

"I don't even know, Rick. He can be such a pigheaded jerk, and we're just - we were always pretty bad at communicating. I thought he spent too much time at work, he thought I wasn't being understanding enough, and before I knew it our fights had just - completely blown out of proportion." She shakes her head, making such an effort to gather herself that he can't help reaching out, squeezing his fingers over her knee. "We said such horrible things to each other. Things that I don't think we could recover from. So when he came home with the divorce papers, I was actually - relieved, I think. Some part of me, at least. The cowardly part," she chuckles darkly.

It hurts, the way she says those words. He never thought of Kyra Blaine as a coward.

"I'm sorry," he says, resting his head on top of hers. "I'm sorry for you and Greg. Sometimes things just don't work out, do they?" She makes a low humming sound, and he's suddenly reminded what a lovely voice she's got. He'd often ask her to sing when they were together; he would request songs in the darkness of his bedroom and then listen to her, fingers skimming over her bare skin. "You should sing me something," he says, part joking and part serious. He's curious to see if she'll do it.

She huffs at him, her head rolling against his shoulder - obviously a no - but then, after a moment of shared silence, she nudges his knee with hers. "Okay. Which song do you want?"

"Um. Anything you like."

"You always were such a big help," she teases, shoving her elbow into him. "All right."

She sings quietly, her voice crystal clear in the dark of night. He doesn't know the song, but the lyrics are beautiful, something about wanting to know the real story behind someone's scars, or choosing to believe the person's protective lies instead. Of course, the only thing he can think of after that is the way Kate's puckered scar felt under his fingers that very first time, how she let him touch, guided his hand between her breasts.

And that look she gave him, lowered lashes and lip caught between her teeth.

Kate.

* * *

"Well," Kyra says, resting her fork next to her plate as she licks her lips with a smile. "I must say, I'm impressed, Rick. I had no idea you were such a fine cook."

He takes a sip of wine, grins back at her. "Years of being a single parent, you know. And too many hours listening to Martha Stewart's lovely voice."

She chuckles, a warm and quiet sound that echoes nicely in his kitchen, and he's surprised how right it feels for the loft to be filled with life again.

He was a little wary when he invited her over. Although he and Kyra have been spending a lot of time together over the past few weeks, going to movies and restaurants, taking walks in the park, he still wasn't sure he'd be comfortable having her in his space. The space that's been his and his alone during this long, painful year of mourning. But he was wrong. She...she fits somehow.

She respects his boundaries, doesn't ask questions he's not ready to answer, and in return he does the same for her. They keep the conversation light, talk about things that are emotionally neutral - books they've read, shows they watch - and it works out really well.

He's pathetically thankful he has a friend again.

"So what's for dessert, chef Castle?" she asks, her brown eyes playful. "Macaroons? A chocolate parfait?"

"Ah," he sighs in mock desolation. "I'm afraid I might disappoint. I've only got...ice cream," he reveals after a dramatic pause, watching her mouth curl up.

"Well. I suppose I could go for ice cream," she says, like she's making the biggest compromise. "If it was that delicious Lemon Meringue from Perry's."

"Yeah? Funny you should say that," he answers, pretending surprise. "It's exactly the one I have in my freezer."

"Serendipitous," Kyra says with that cute knowing grin, a wiggle of her eyebrow. And though he's aware she's only doing it because she knows how much he loves five-syllable words, he can't help the deep hum of appreciation in his chest.

* * *

The first time she kisses him - or should he say, kisses him again? - they're in a movie theater.

Everybody else has left the room. Only he and Kyra remain, because he wanted to know the name of the song that played during the first part of the final credits. And there's something about lingering in a theater once the film is over, letting his mind wrap around the ending, ponder over the message that was given him. He likes it. Even when the movie was nothing more than a light-hearted comedy.

"I think my favorite scene was the one with the dog," Kyra comments, laughter still bubbling in her voice. "Oh, the mom's face when she realized he'd peed all over the carpet - it was priceless."

"Dog was a pretty amazing actor," Castle agrees, glancing at her with a smile. "Not many could have pulled off such a great innocent look. That little tilt of his head-"

"Oh, and with his floppy ears? Man, that was adorable. I lo-ove floppy ears," she sighs in satisfaction, resting her head back against the seat and angling it towards him.

That's the Kyra he remembers, a little exuberant and passionate over things that he doesn't really understand. He looks at her, strangely moved by the pleasure that has flushed her cheeks, her striking resemblance with the young woman he fell in love with all those years ago. She meets his eyes and it's there in her face too, whatever this is between them. She parts her mouth as if to say something, then changes her mind. But she cants towards him, her elbow nudging his on the armrest, and slowly, slowly, she feathers her lips over his.

He shuts his eyes tight, his heart desperately torn, feels the warm caress of Kyra's breath at his mouth. God, this isn't - he doesn't-

His hand lifts of his own accord, curls around her neck; he strokes his thumb over her ear and kisses her back, just for a second, just to see. It takes like betrayal, his mind protesting his treachery, screaming in revolt - but his body tells another story. His body craves this, her, the kinship and comfort of a woman's touch, soft skin pressed against his. Need throbs in his blood, a sharp burn, and he drops his head, breaking away in shame.

He's been so very lonely.

"Kyra-"

"I know," she murmurs, a hand resting over his chest. "Doesn't feel right, does it?"

He wishes-

so many things.

Her fingers dance over the fabric of his shirt, and he grits his teeth to suppress a shiver. Then comes the warm touch of her mouth at his cheek, startling, and he just - can't make himself move away.

"But it does feel good," she whispers, and what can he say to that?

Yes. Yes, it feels good. Yes, he wants her. But Kyra's not Kate; she will never be Kate.

He can't do this to her.

"Rick," she breathes, nose flirting with his, and already he can feel himself breaking at the softness, the tentative lift in her voice. He opens his eyes, desperate for her to see what he cannot find the words for, how broken and hopeless he is, truly.

He might only have spent a couple months dating Kate, but he was in love with her for years leading up to that (he likes to think that some part of her was in love with him, too). And Kate Beckett - Kate Beckett ruined him.

No other woman will ever do it for him.

"Oh, Rick," Kyra sighs, her mouth finding his once again. Does she not see- "I know," she assures him softly, her fingers threading through the greying hair at his temples. "I know you loved her, baby. Anyone could see that. But she's - she's not coming back. And I really am sorry."

God, it hurts. He keeps expecting his chest to blow open under the force of it one day, his heart too heavy, saturated with all the love he can no longer give. Little pieces of ribs and lungs and flesh scattered all over his living room.

"Do you think I don't miss Greg?" Kyra murmurs, her voice so raw, and shit - he can't do this. He can't- "I do. Every day. Every damn day. But Rick - you help me. Being with you helps me. And I think...I think it helps you too."

He wants to cry. He's going to cry, because yes, she's right, it does help him. And what does that mean? What does that make him? If he can forget Kate so easily, can just cling onto the next distraction until he doesn't spend every second of his day aching for her-

Okay, not fair. Kyra's many things, but he can't call her a distraction.

"I'm not saying this is the right thing," she says, her voice breaking. "I don't know that any more than you do. But you and I, we always had this thing between us, right? And if it can help us now, if we can help each other, then why shouldn't we?"

He's got no answers for her. He can only stare at her face, exhausted by the war that's being waged inside of him, the war he's losing.

Her hand curls over his, so gentle, and maybe that's what does it. Or maybe it's the realization of something that, deep down, he's always known: he needs people. He needs interaction and human contact, and the kindness that Kyra's been showing him-

He can't give it up.

It wouldn't work with anybody else; it wouldn't work if they didn't already know each other so well. But they do.

"We don't have to be more than friends if you don't want to," Kyra's saying soothingly as the final credits come to an end, the music fading out. "Or we can also take it slow, see what happens. I just don't want to lose you, Rick."

Right. This is not just about him. Kyra's been hurt, too, badly hurt - and who is he to refuse her the comfort she's so generously given him?

Maybe she's right. Maybe there's a chance they can make this work.

Maybe there's a life for him after Kate Beckett.

He gives a slow nod, flips his hand up so his palm meets Kyra's. "Slow sounds good," he murmurs, voice scratchy against his throat. He leans in to press a long kiss to her cheek, feels her breath of relief as he does, and then an employee comes into the room, starts cleaning up, and they have to get up and leave.

His body feels battered, every joint aching like he's actually been in a physical fight, but when he looks down there's a faint smile on Kyra's face, a shimmer of hope in her eyes that wasn't there before.

And damn it, yes, he does feel better for it.

* * *

The first time they have sex, it's Kate's name in his mouth when he comes, hoarse and breaking, his body bent over Kyra's.

He feels terrible for weeks after that, even if she keeps telling him that it doesn't matter, that she understands. He wishes she didn't; he wishes she would yell at him, tell him to man up. Demand more from him.

She's not Kate, he reminds himself.

The next time they're in bed together, he's careful to keep his mouth shut.

* * *

The call comes almost two years after the bridge. Six hundred and ninety-seven days of missing Kate, of trying to make a life without her.

His phone vibrates sharply against his nightstand, pulling him out of sleep at two in the morning; he grunts and rubs a hand over his eyes, no longer used to crazy hours. He could just turn around, go back to sleep-

The vibrations stop, then start again, relentless, and he surrenders with a sigh, grabs the cell as he slides his legs out of bed. Kyra's still asleep, and he doesn't want to wake her.

"Castle," he murmurs on a yawn, distractedly looking around for a t-shirt. He's got goosebumps from leaving the cocoon of his bed.

"Castle, it's Jordan. Shaw."

His attention is instantly commanded by the way her voice halts between the words, a sharpness that seems to cover something deeper. Like - hesitation?

He's never known Shaw to hesitate.

"Hi," he says, murmuring as he reaches to grab yesterday's t-shirt from the back of a chair. It's been a long time since they last spoke, and he can't think of any reason she'd be calling him except - but no. No. "Everything okay?" he forces himself to ask.

There's a short silence, then her voice again. Determined this time. "Castle, there's no easy way to say this. We caught Tyson."

They - what? He freezes.

"There was a murder. A girl in a small town, in the south of Canada. Sloppy enough that he actually got caught, and because the MO was so similar the police there thought to alert us."

Tyson is still alive. Tyson was hiding in a small town in Canada. Tyson is alive.

"Rick. Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah," he manages to blurt out, still paralyzed by the conclusion his brain is afraid to draw.

If Tyson's alive-

"You should sit down," Shaw suggests gently, and when is Shaw ever gentle? Shit. Shit- "We found her too," she says, a mixture of exhaustion and triumph coloring the words. "We found Beckett. He kept her in his basement, locked away as a sort of prisoner. She's alive, Castle. Not in the best shape, but she's alive."

His mind goes blank.

He swallows slowly, painfully, cuts his eyes to the bed and Kyra's sleeping form.

Kate.

Kate is alive.

Oh god. Oh god-

"Castle."

He's still holding the t-shirt, his hand in a fist, digging into the fabric, but Jordan's call spurs him back into motion. He spins, grabs his jeans as well, whatever underwear he can find, and slips out of the room.

"Where?"


	3. Chapter 3

Castle keeps bouncing his knee on the plane, smoothing his palms up and down his legs. The rough material of his jeans grates at his hands and it's good, it's good, it takes the edge off a little bit.

He had straight vodka half an hour ago, and he doesn't think he should drink more alcohol - at least, the rational part of his mind doesn't think so. But still.

His throat is dry, the thump of his heart heavy in his chest. If he didn't know any better, didn't know it's all stemming from Shaw's unexpected phone call two hours ago, he'd think he's having the beginnings of a heart attack. The flight attendant seems to agree; she keeps giving him concerned looks, has stopped at least three times to ask him if he was okay. He said yes. What else is there?

_See, the FBI just got a hold of the son of a bitch who tried to frame me for murder and then kidnapped the love of my life, arranged it so well that everybody thought she was dead and so was he. And I let myself be convinced, I mourned her and tried to move on, and now it turns out I was actually right. That she was alive all along. So no, I'm not really okay._

He thinks the lovely Brittany might try and have him committed to a mental institution if he blurted any of that out.

He spent ten minutes on the phone with Jordan arguing over his destination, because he was ready to book a ticket to Canada, meet her - meet them - there, but she said it'd be a waste of his time. Beckett is in a good enough shape to be repatriated, apparently, so it's only a matter of hours until they get her back to Washington.

Which is where his plane is headed right now.

Half the seats are empty, probably because of the early hour. Castle's grateful he doesn't have a neighbor; he can't imagine what it would be like to have someone glaring at him every time he jiggles his antsy knee. Although first class seats are probably too wide for him to disturb anyone, really.

He rests his head back with a sigh, angles his eyes to the round window. The sun is delicately rising, nothing more than a pale ray of light at the horizon for now, but it's already rippled all over the sky, the deep blue of the night slowly giving ground.

Is Kate seeing it too?

The thought startles him, his brain still struggling to accept the reality of Jordan's words. He needs to see her; he won't really believe it until he's seen her.

But already hope has left its mark on him, devastated what little balance Castle'd managed to find for himself, and he has a guilty thought for the hasty note he left on the kitchen counter. He's not even sure what he wrote - his mind was reeling from Jordan's news - but he's pretty certain it's nowhere near the explanation Kyra deserves.

Well. She will call him, right? When she wakes and he's not there and she finds his note, she will call him and they will-

talk. Figure it out.

He bites on the inside of his cheek, rubs his hand more energetically against his jeans.

Deep down, he knows, doesn't he? If Kate really is alive - and he knows, rationally, that Jordan would never say so if she wasn't absolutely sure that this Beckett she found isn't some sort of clone that Tyson would have recreated from the DNA in Kate's hair or something - he knows what it means for him and Kyra. And he feels like a complete bastard for that certainty that beats in his chest. He does love Kyra; he loves her with his twenty-year-old heart, and he loves her for the peace she's brought him during those past months, the times she's made him laugh, the times when she's bared herself to him.

But Kyra's not Kate. He's always known that.

And Kate-

He doesn't know what it is about her exactly. He's tried to rationalize it so many times, talked about her heart and courage, her stubbornness and compassion, but it's also something at a baser level, this profound pull to her that he's felt since day one. Like his body knew something his brain had yet to discover.

He can't resist that pull.

Hell, he's on a plane to Washington at freaking five in the morning because of that pull.

And he didn't even wake Kyra to say goodbye.

The plane starts its descent, the bright red sign requiring that he fasten his seat belt, and Castle clenches his hands around the armrests, his heart fluttering in a way that has nothing to do with being airborne.

Kate.

He's going to see Kate again.

* * *

There's a black car with tinted windows waiting for him when he exits the airport. He can't help but be impressed at Jordan's organization.

The driver seems somewhat surprised by the lack of baggage - Castle only has the clothes he threw on quickly, a thick jacket and scarf, his wallet - but the man makes no comment, simply opens the back door for Rick to slide in.

"So. Where are we headed?" he asks when the guy sits back at the wheel, going for jovial even though his palms are slick with sweat.

All he gets in response is a blank look. Right. No small talk then.

He runs a hand over his face and leans back into the seat. He should feel exhausted, but he doesn't; there's only excitement pounding in his blood.

The driver is smooth, and the roads are all but empty - it's barely even six - so they make it to what he can only guess are the FBI headquarters in record time. He's welcomed by an FBI official who can't be more than thirty, and whose clear blue eyes remind him of Ryan a little bit.

"Mr. Castle," the man greets, giving him a firm handshake. "I'm Darryl Bates. Agent Shaw told me when to expect you. I trust you had a good flight."

"It was okay, yeah," he answers a little dazedly, blinking in the morning light. He wishes Shaw was here already. With Kate.

"If you'll follow me. I'll show you around and direct you to Agent Shaw's office; you can wait for her there. She called me a couple minutes ago, actually, said they wouldn't be much longer."

Oh.

"Great," he says, hands curling into fists inside his pockets. He walks inside the building, casts a look around, not really surprised at the wide, open space, the sleek white tile that barely murmurs under his shoes.

They get into an elevator, and Agent Bates tells him what floor the cafeteria is on, where he can find the nearest restrooms; Castle can't manage to gather any sort of interest until Bates mentions the seventh floor, where the medical facilities are.

"That's where your friend will be," he says, giving the writer a direct look, and Rick suddenly wonders how much that man knows about him.

"No hospital?" he asks.

"Shaw had medics with her to assess Detective Beckett's condition; apparently, she's not in need of surgery or anything so drastic. We have very good facilities here, and our doctors are among the best."

Right. "Didn't mean to imply anything," he says with a thin smile, but before Bates can make any answer they reach the fifth floor, and the man exits there, obviously expecting Castle to follow.

The FBI agent turns right and walks along a corridor of similar-looking offices, glass walls that don't allow for much privacy, before he stops in front of a specific door and reaches in his pocket for the keys.

"Shaw's office. You can wait here, and if you need anything - water, coffee, something to eat - just let me know."

"Coffee would be great, actually," he answers with a tired smile, stepping inside the bare, nicely-lit space. A chair, a desk, two seats facing it. Along with a small shelf in the corner, that is all the furniture that makes up Jordan's office. It's easy to see she doesn't spend a lot of time here.

Castle walks to the large window, arches an eyebrow at the amazing view of Washington that spreads at his feet. He doesn't want to sit. He's way too impatient for Shaw and Kate to get here; he feels like sitting would defeat the purpose of his dash to the airport, the early morning flight. At the same time, his legs are threatening to collapse under him. It might be a smart choice to save the last of his energy, rest as much as he can until Kate's here. Because once she is, he's not leaving her side.

Okay. He turns away from the window, flops down onto one of the armchairs. The leather creaks under his weight and he wonders briefly if he's the first person to ever sit in it. Bates returns shortly with his coffee and then leaves him alone, the steaming cup set on the desk in front of him.

Castle waits.

* * *

His head snaps every time he hears voices in the corridor, eyes desperately scanning for Jordan's auburn hair, but he keeps being disappointed. After a moment, though - forty minutes, says his watch, but it might as well have been years - the door opens with a swish and he's on his feet, he's spinning, he's ready-

Oh. She's on her own.

"Hello, Rick," Agent Shaw says, holding up her fingers.

"Hey," he answers, shaking her hand.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, with the urgency thrumming in his body, and of course she sees it. One long look at him and he can tell she sees it all, his sleepless night and breathless hope, the way his brain's been banging around in his skull.

Jordan gives a small nod, as if confirming something to herself, and then she opens the door again.

"Come with me."

* * *

He makes an attempt at small talk; small talk seems like the polite thing to do. "How's your daughter?"

A smile passes over Jordan's face, so quick he almost misses it. "She's good. Growing up. It's not always easy, but it's worth it."

He couldn't agree more.

"So...did you just get here?" he asks, can't help himself.

"About - ten minutes ago," she says, checking her watch. Her voice has that sharp, exhausted edge to it. He wonders how long it's been since she last slept. They disembark on the seventh floor, the elevator empty except for them, and then Shaw swirls around, rests a hand at Castle's chest. "A few things."

He sneaks a look over her shoulder, sees busy-looking people in white and green coats. The whole area looks and smells like a hospital, the linoleum floor pale and neat under his feet, and his heart catches in his chest.

"Castle." Jordan grabs his chin between two fingers, forcing his eyes down at her, and there's so much Beckett in that gesture that air deserts his lungs, leaves his eyes stinging. "Listen to me. She's not awake right now, okay? She's heavily sedated-"

"Sedated?" He knits his brow, disappointment fluttering in his chest. "Why?"

The FBI agent pushes out a breath, but meets his eyes squarely. "She took down one of my guys when they first opened her cell. Didn't do much damage, but she knocked him flat out. The second agent was a little - overeager - and he stuck a syringe into her before anyone could help it."

A smile flickers on Castle's lips. That definitely sounds like his Beckett.

"She's undernourished, and it looks like Tyson left her alone for the last two days without food or water. The medics I had with me already perfused her with all kinds of drugs supposed to help, but she's not at her best. And we still have no idea what Tyson may have done to her. The skin of her wrists was damaged by-"

"Can I see her?" he interrupts, can't take this right now.

Shaw purses her mouth at him. He gives her a pleading look.

"Jordan, I hear what you're saying. I hear that she's not going to be the same. But please, I just need to see her. I don't care-" his voice cracks, gives out, and he closes his eyes for a split second. "Just let me see her."

Shaw's hand moves from his chest to his bicep, giving a reassuring squeeze, her eyes entirely too sympathetic.

"This way," she murmurs.

* * *

He's not breathing.

Jordan opens the door for him and he tiptoes inside, his heart drumming a crazy rhythm in his chest, his mouth dry and filled with cotton.

There's a bed near the window. He sees the shape of legs covered in sheets and a blanket, long legs that connect to a waist, but a curtain hides everything else from him. He draws closer, one step after the other, can't feel his body at all.

A pale, thin hand that could be Beckett's, all slim fingers and hidden strength. A thick, impressive dressing around her wrist. An arm that is too skinny but could still be hers, that creamy skin he remembers worshipping with his mouth.

He pauses, doesn't know if he can do this after all. He's not ready. He's already breaking apart and he's not - he can't-

He takes the last step.

* * *

"Kate," he murmurs, a choking, ugly sound in his throat. She's hooked to more machines than he'd like, thin tubes running along her skin like extra veins, but there's no - there's no denying that it's her.

The determined, graceful slope of the nose, the sharp line of the jaw, the brush of dark lashes over her pale cheeks. He shuffles closer, crowding her, feels a sudden burst of gratitude that she is unconscious and he can do this, touch her, feed off her reality.

Castle touches his fingertips to her hairline, hesitant at first, barely there. He skims his thumb over the expanse of her forehead, down the rise of her nose, cups her cheek with his palm. Shit.

"Kate," he says again, and this time it comes out as a moan, his heart too full, overflowing.

Alive, alive, alive. Her chest rises on her every breath, the slightest of lifts, and it might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He brushes his index finger to her mouth, her beautiful chapped mouth, and he leans in, slowly, carefully, feathers his lips over hers. A tear escapes from his eye, runs down his cheek, falling onto her chin.

He wipes it delicately, straightens out, realizes that he's shaking.

His whole body's shaking.

He reaches out for Kate's hand, mindful of the gauze that stretches from her forearm to the middle of her palm, and cradles it between both of his, the tears unstoppable now. He bows over her body, his forehead coming to rest over her stomach, and he grits his teeth.

The words come out anyway.

"I'm so sorry," he rasps, feels it crash right through him. Everything he's been trying to keep at bay. She was with Tyson, she was with Tyson the whole time and he failed her, he gave up and stopped looking, god, he did- "I'm so sorry, Kate. I'm so sorry."

He's stroking her thigh over and over, sobbing like a baby and soaking her hospital bed, and those seem to be the only words that will leave his mouth.

"I'm so sorry."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I seriously need to thank SparkleMouse for her help and amazing editing skills. And then I need to thank all of you guys for your reviews and your love. It's just - wow.

**Disclaimer: I haven't bought the rights to Castle just yet.**

* * *

When Shaw finally comes in, he's had time to straighten out, gather himself, wipe the tracks of tears off his face. He's fairly certain she's been waiting outside, allowing him to do just that, and he's never been more thankful for the woman's tact.

"Any change?" she asks him with a thin smile, stopping by the chair that he's dragged next to Beckett's bed.

He shakes his head, his fingers caressing the back of Kate's hand. He hasn't let go; he'll never let go again.

"Do you - have they told you when she's supposed to wake up?" he asks, his voice still rough, grating against his throat.

"Should be any time now," Jordan says, her eyes trained on Beckett's face.

"Okay," he breathes out. He can do that. He can wait. He's waited so long already.

"Castle."

When Shaw doesn't continue he lifts his eyes to her in askance, is surprised at the gentleness on her face. "What?"

"The doctor doesn't think you should be in here. When she wakes up."

"What?" Even he can tell that he sounds like a little boy, so he takes pains to make his voice more reasonable and adult-like. "Why not?"

"It might be too big of a shock for her. We don't know exactly, Rick, but it's possible that Tyson is the only person she's had any contact with over the last two years. And if so-"

"Well, shouldn't she wake up to people who love her? People who actually care for her, who-"

"You know that's not how it works," Jordan says, a stern look in her eyes. "Come on, Castle. Two years with Tyson - do you really think he wouldn't have tried to play games with her mind? Do you think he would have left her alone-"

"Stop, please," he begs, suddenly breathless, a hand raised in supplication. "I just..."

He just wants to be here when she opens her eyes. He wants-

"What I'm saying is, we don't know for sure how she'll react to you," Shaw says, conciliatory, her voice softening. "It's possible that she tries to hurt you, Castle. We don't know where her head is at right now."

But he doesn't care. He doesn't care about the risks, and he'll gladly sign any paper saying so, any... He sighs. "You think it's best for her."

"Yes," Shaw says, bluntly honest. "Until we know more about her mental state. And it might be easier on her too, Castle. Nobody she knows, nobody expecting things of her." She gives him a look and he nods, can't deny that she has a point. He knows he won't be able to help himself; his heart will pour out of his eyes the moment he looks at her, and the apologies will roll off his tongue. He won't be able to help it.

"I don't like this," he says.

"I know," Jordan says evenly, a hint of compassion in her eyes. "And believe me, I understand. We will get you in here as soon as we know it's safe, for you and for her. Okay? It's the best I can do."

He takes a long breath, releases it, his face automatically turning back to Kate. She looks so pale, so vulnerable in her hospital bed, and he can't believe he's about to abandon her again, let her do this on her own.

"Come on, Rick," Shaw nudges, but he's got to lean down and press his mouth to Kate's cheek first, nose brushing against the line of her cheekbone.

"I'll be right here," he promises, words tangling in his throat. "I'll be right outside, Kate, you hear me? I'm not going anywhere. I'm in here the moment you need me."

She doesn't twitch, doesn't show the slightest flicker of awareness, and he straightens, his heart heavy in his chest as he slowly spins to Jordan.

"All right," he says.

* * *

The moment he steps into the corridor, he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket, the vibration making his thigh twitch. He fishes the cell out, doesn't need to see the caller ID to know who it is.

Kyra.

He's ignored her first three phone calls, but it's probably time. Running a hand through his hair, he lets out a slow exhale, swipes his thumb across the screen. "Hey."

"Rick," she sighs in relief, and guilt skyrockets in his chest. "Where are you? I've been trying to call you for an hour-"

"I know," he says, his throat squeezing painfully. "I'm in a hospital, and you know their phone policy-"

A nurse is actually coming to him with a reproachful look, gesturing to the phone he's holding. He mimes an apology, and lets himself be shepherded to an area where cell phones are authorized.

"So it's true?" Kyra's saying, shock at the back of her voice. "They found her? She's alive?"

He plops down into one of the empty seats in the phone area, rests his head back against the wall. "Yeah," he says simply, a little awed. "Yeah, she is. I just - I just saw her."

There's a stunned silence on the other end of the line. He knows what that feeling's like, so he gives Kyra a moment, lets her call the shots.

"Oh my god, Rick," she finally breathes, and he can hear her settle into the couch, the protest of the leather when she tucks her feet in between the cushions. She does that a lot.

"I know."

"Is she - how-" Kyra pauses, takes a breath, starts again. "Was she with him the whole time? That serial killer guy?"

He closes his eyes, wants to cry at the thought. Or punch something. "Yeah," he rasps. "Seems like she was."

Another pause. "But - is she okay?"

He opens his eyes again, stares at the ceiling, uninterrupted, soothing white. "We don't know yet. She was unconscious when I saw her. Drugged up. Physically, she's fine. She's lost some weight, she's malnourished, but - it's nothing she can't recover from."

"Oh, good," Kyra says, such relief in the words that he wants to kiss her. Nobody can deny that Kyra Blaine is a good person. "Okay. Wow."

"I know," he murmurs, and he's got to be doing the worst job ever in the whole history of conversations, but he just feels so terrible. His mind keeps flying back to Kate, wishing he could be in that bedroom with her, and here's Kyra asking him if Beckett will be okay.

It's so fucked up. All of it.

"So do you know how long you're gonna be in DC?" his current girlfriend inquires softly, making an effort that he doesn't deserve.

"I - no," he answers, startled to realize he hasn't even thought about this. "I guess...I'm gonna stay here until Kate's cleared to go back to New York. I just - need to be here, you know? Do anything I can. I don't want to fail her again."

"Rick." Her gentle, reproving tone doesn't help. He doesn't want to talk about this with her. He just can't.

"Anyway, I, um, I gotta go. Agent Shaw wants to talk to me."

"Oh." Kyra sounds so disappointed that he wonders if, maybe, she's seen right through his lie. But she goes on, sounding determinedly more cheerful, "Okay, well. I'm probably gonna meet my mother for lunch, and I'll sleep at her place tonight. Call me when you know what your plans are, okay?"

"I will," he assures her.

"And, Rick. If you want to talk, if you need...anything. I'm here."

Oh, god. Can't she just call him names and hang up on him?

"Thanks," he whispers, although they both know he won't be calling her. "Kyra..." It hangs in the air for a moment, the weight of his unspoken regrets, his gratitude and feelings for her, and in the end she's stronger than him.

"Bye, Rick," she breathes quietly, ending the call.

He stares at the phone for a second, then buries his head into his hands, feels himself hovering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. No, no. Can't do that. Kate needs him.

Kate-

He needs to find Jordan.

* * *

She's floating on a pool of darkness, warm and curiously mellow, nothing to trouble or upset her, when something tugs sharply at her consciousness, pulls it up towards the light. She fights it for a second or two, the heavy weight of her body trying to anchor her, ground her in reality, but in the end she can only surrender.

Every bruise, every tired bone is a step further into awareness, and she relents with a sigh, tries to lift her eyes open.

It's surprisingly hard; when she does manage it, brightness short-circuits her brain, drags a moan from her throat.

She shuts her eyelids, her teeth gritting, and the memories brutally hit. Tyson, the basement, Castle's voice. She's got - she's gotta do something - she needs to _get out-_

"Detective Beckett?"

Her heart quiets in her chest, her breath stilling. This is not Tyson's voice. Not Castle's either. And her shoulders ache, a throb that runs deep, but her arms are free. Her wrists are no longer tied above her head.

Or around her back.

_Don't hope_, she tells herself warily.

"Too much light," she murmurs, and her voice is a broken thread, phantoms of sound rippling past her lips.

She hears movement, a sound like curtains being drawn before the footsteps grow close again.

"Try opening your eyes now?" the mysterious man suggests gently.

She feels a tantalizing urge to say no, just because she can, but she swallows it down and carefully peers an eye open. The room is a lot darker now, no direct light making it through, and she relaxes, opens the second one.

The man is watching her intently, brown eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He has a good face, a trustworthy face, and her gaze slowly lowers, registers the white coat. A doctor?

"Do you need water?" he asks her, reaching for a plastic cup on the bedside table.

She nods and he leans in closer, a hand moving towards her head; she flinches, instinctively ducks to avoid him. He pauses.

"I don't - I don't need help," she rasps, and she struggles to slide her elbow closer, prop herself up.

It hurts. Her whole body hurts. But she manages to extend her right hand, and the man, the doctor, places the water cup into her open palm without asking questions.

She drinks slowly, the coolness both a curse and a blessing against her parched throat, and gives back the glass before she collapses onto her pillow again.

Drinking from a glass. This hasn't happened to her in-

"Where am I?" she inquires, when really all she wants to say is _Is it over is it over please tell me it's over._

"FBI headquarters," the doctor says. "Washington DC."

So it_ is_ over. Right?

"Can you tell me today's date?" he asks gently.

She presses her lips together, shakes her head. Nausea swirls in her chest. She's got no idea at all-

"Do you know what year this is?"

A memory flashes before her eyes, Tyson's hand triumphantly holding up the paper, and she swallows. "2014?"

"Very good," the man says, a slow smile stretching his mouth. "Today's date is September 24th, 2014. Now, can you tell me your name?"

"Katherine Beckett," she replies tiredly. "Born in New York City on November 17th, 1979. My father is Jim Beckett-"

"Thank you," the doctor interrupts, writing something down on his notepad. "That's more that I need, really."

"I'm okay," she insists, but his face is smooth and betrays nothing. She changes her strategy. "Can you tell me how I got here?"

He looks at her, tilts his head. "Do you know where you were before?"

She sets her jaw, gives a slight shake of her head.

"Canada. An isolated house outside the city of Timmins, not very far from the US border. Lost in the woods, from what they told me."

Well, that explains the cold. And Tyson's certainty that no one would ever hear her screams. She suppresses a shiver.

"Tyson murdered a young woman from Timmins two days ago, and that's how we found you. Well, it was the local cops who arrested him, actually."

"You gotta to be kidding," she says hoarsely, cannot even start wrapping her head around it. The local cops?

"True story," he says, a spark in his eyes. "The cops saw the crime scene, and one of them must've recognized his MO, because they called us. We connected the dots, found you, and - here you are."

She looks at him, a little breathless, disbelieving.

He cocks his head. "So. How do you feel, detective?"

She doesn't have words for him. How does she _feel_? "What are you?" she jokes weakly. "A doctor or a FBI agent?"

"A little of both," he answers with a light smile. He sees right through her, though; she can tell. "My name's Colin."

She nods, her eyes flicking down to the thick gauze that surrounds both her wrists before she drags them back up. "Kate," she drops on an exhale.

"Kate," he echoes, giving a slight nod. "Well. How do you feel, Kate?"

She opens her mouth, but the words tangle in her throat, a thick mass that clogs up, brings a sting to her eyes. Oh god.

"Can you talk about it at all?" he asks, so careful that it hurts, it hurts, everything hurts. "Do you need a moment to yourself?"

She shakes her head no, sharp jerks that probably betray her. But she doesn't need a moment to herself. She's had plenty of those.

"I-" she says, has to breathe through it, slowly, in and out. "Where is he? Tyson?"

Colin weighs his answer, but when he speaks his words have a ring of truth to them. "He's here, too. In the building, I mean. But he's locked up in a cell, Kate. There is no way he can possibly get to you."

She presses her lips together, remembers that night Castle spent in holding - in another life. But she says nothing.

"You're safe," the doctor insists quietly. "It's over."

It's over.

God.

"I think I might need that moment after all," she chokes out, fingers clenching on the sheets, and Colin is not even out of the room before her cheeks are stained with tears.

* * *

Castle finds his way back to Kate's room after a few wrong turns, and is surprised to find Shaw leaning against the wall, her fingers tattooing an impatient rhythm on her phone.

"Did you get kicked out too?" he asks, a trickle of perverse pleasure in his chest.

Shaw gives him that cool, _don't be a child _look. "She knows me too, Castle. Maybe not as well as she does you, but I'm not neutral ground either. The whole idea is to have someone in there who's never seen her before, who is not going to be comparing her to Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD."

"She_ is _Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD," he murmurs obstinately, but Shaw's phone chooses that moment to go off sharply, crushing any chance of a real argument.

"Shaw," she answers, her jaw set. "Yeah. Did you find him?"

The answer she gets doesn't seem to satisfy her; she turns away, takes a few steps. Not enough that Castle can't hear every word of the conversation.

"What do you mean, you lost your way?" she hisses in displeasure. "Did you lose the car and GPS, too?"

Rick can't help a smirk.

"Okay, fine. Just - find someone to ask directions from. I don't care how you do it, Mitchell. You just do. And call me back when you're at the cabin."

She ends the call with a sigh, a hand running through her hair, before she turns back to the writer.

"Jim Beckett doesn't have a cell phone anymore," she says. "And it seems like his cabin is buried somewhere in the woods with no sign pointing to it."

Jim.

Castle stands stunned, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. How - why didn't he -

"You sent someone," he murmurs, feels a brutal, irrational pang of gratitude for Shaw and her levelheadedness.

"Of course we did," she says, not looking at him as she slips her phone back into her pocket. "Gotta notify her next of kin that Beckett's alive."

He swallows thickly, can't believe he's been so very selfish. What about- "And the precinct?"

Jordan shoots him a quick look. "I called Victoria Gates this morning, from the airport. I wasn't sure if you'd want to tell them yourself, but I assumed given the circumstances, it might be better if you didn't have too much on your plate."

He opens his mouth, humbled and thankful, but before he can get anything out the door to Kate's room opens, a doctor in a white coat sliding into the corridor.

"Dr. Grant." There's a touch of nervousness in the way Jordan throws her head back, squares her shoulders, and Castle is sharply reminded that she cares about Beckett too.

"Agent Shaw," the doctor says with a sharp smile. He's middle-aged, with glasses and a bushy grey beard. Castle has to refrain from grabbing him and shaking the words out of his mouth.

"How is she?" Shaw inquires.

"I'm not sure yet," Grant answers. "She's coherent, she asked where she was, what happened to Tyson. She seems to have a solid sense of who she is."

Of course she does. She's Kate Beckett.

"She got a little emotional at being told that Tyson had been caught and was locked away," the doctor goes on. "Very understandable. I told her I would give her a moment. She seems like the kind of person who needs their privacy before they allow themselves to break down."

Break down? What does he mean, _break down_?

Castle takes a step closer to the door, his mouth opening in indignation, but Jordan beats him to it. "Will we be able to see her? When she's settled down?"

"Well, as long as she's okay with it," he smiles. "I'll ask her myself. But to tell you the truth - I'm impressed at how well she's keeping it together. Anybody would need therapy after spending two years in the power of a serial killer, but I feel like she will be a tough nut to crack."

Kate.

The writer stares at the door, wishes he could make it disappear with his mind. She's in there alone, maybe crying, and he just - he can't bear the thought. Not after two years of missing her, two years of yearning for her face, her voice, her touch. Enough.

He charges through before he can even think twice about it. Shaw and Grant instinctively move out of his way, startled just long enough for him to push the door open and slip in, and he flips the lock on the doctor's half-voiced protest. The semi-dark catches him unaware, makes him pause.

"Kate?" he ventures, suddenly intimidated by the curtain, the complete absence of sound.

She doesn't answer. He takes a step closer, wavers, but he's come this far and he hasn't seen in two years. _Time to man up, Castle._

"Kate," he says again, stronger this time. He approaches the curtain like he would a wild animal, slow gestures, gentle voice.

"Castle." It's nothing more than a breath, really, a soft puff of air, but it travels straight through him, wraps around his heart.

"Yeah," he murmurs, finds himself smiling, in spite of everything. "It's me. Can I come over to your side? I wanna see you."

He hears her sigh, a heavy, reluctant thing, and he wonders if the doctor was right. If he's interrupting her private moment, upsetting her fragile balance-

"Okay," she whispers finally, like she's giving in. "Yeah. Come here."

He skirts the curtain, pacing his steps so he won't make her jump, and then stills at the foot of her bed, a hand on the plastic railing as he lifts his eyes to her. She's watching him already, propped up on pillows. Her eyes are dark and liquid, too large in her pale face, and god-

He's rooted to the spot, silenced, unmade. How entrancing, how very beautiful she is, and how could he ever think he'd be able to get over her?

What a fool he was. She's - everything.

She gazes back just as intently, emotion flittering across her eyes too quickly for him to put a name on it, and he has to blink a few times, push back the tears that threaten once again. She'll call him a girl if he cries.

He thought he would never see her again.

"You're here," she breathes out, as if she can't quite believe it. He can see the differences more clearly now that she's awake, the weariness that lines her face, the limp fall of her hair, the vivid, hand-shaped bruises that spread over the thin column of her neck. But it's off-balanced by the energy she radiates, has always radiated, the set of her shoulders and the way she holds her head, and she's still - no matter what - she's still his Beckett.

"Took the first flight out this morning," he tells her, his mouth lifting. "As soon as Jordan called me. Almost flew coach for your sake, Beckett." He wriggles an eyebrow and an unwilling laugh escapes her, a little gruff, a little raw. But it's there, and she seems even more surprised by the sound than he is.

She purses her mouth together, her eyes shimmering, and his heart trips in his chest.

"I thought you were dead," he blurts out thoughtlessly. The agony of those months without her still burns at his insides; he needs it cleansed, washed off him.

Kate drops her gaze to her lap, fingers fisting over the sheets. "I know," she says, that little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. There's regret in her voice, and anger too, and suddenly he can't stand to be this far from her. He takes one step, two, but then she stiffens and he stops dead in his tracks.

"Kate." She swallows, looks up at him, so strong and helpless at the same time. It makes his blood simmer. "Is it okay if I come closer?"

She takes a breath and nods, rests her head back against the pillows. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

She makes an annoyed sound, a growl at the back of her throat, and holds up her right hand, her slender fingers emerging from the bulk of white gauze. "Castle."

He gingerly shuffles forward, tiny, tiny steps, watches her body for signs of tension. Her chest looks a little tight, her breathing too controlled, but she's still looking at him with determination.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he promises, feels stupid saying the words. But she might need to hear them.

Kate closes her eyes, and the pained look on her face nearly stops his heart. "I know," she moans fiercely. He's not sure who she's mad at - him or herself. "Just get over here, Castle."

He does, finally bridging the space between them, and her fingers are dry and cool when she reaches for him, the skin a little chapped but soft underneath. The moment their hands brush together her body contracts, recoils; she sucks in a deep, drowning breath and he immediately moves back.

"Kate?"

She breathes fast and shallow, like she might start crying any second, and he's never felt more powerless in his life. "Give me a second," she rasps, and he can't help but notice how thin she is, the sharp jut of her trembling shoulders underneath the hospital gown.

Jerry Tyson is a dead man.

"You want me to call the doctor?" he asks in the end, the only thing he can think of. He wants to touch her so very badly, wrap his arms around her and never let go, but that's obviously not going to help.

Kate's fingers slowly relax over the sheet, and she shakes her head, lifts her eyes to him. They're bright with unshed tears. "Don't go. Just - stay with me," she breathes.

He nods, and it takes him a few seconds to remember how to work his tongue. _Always_, he wants to say, but instead he settles for, "Anything you need, Kate."

At least that's not a promise he's broken.


	5. Chapter 5

The doctor's explaining everything that's wrong with her, the vitamins she's lacking and her shoulders and wrists and how they want to X-ray her leg, but Kate's only half-listening. She can't take her eyes off Castle, Castle who has backed away in a corner, entirely too far, after getting lectured on risk-taking and respecting her privacy, Castle whose face flinches every time Doctor Grant adds something new to the list.

There's nothing she can do to protect him, no way of keeping that darkness from creeping out in his eyes, and the worst part is that she can't even feel sorry.

She's too stunned, too grateful that he cared enough - still cares enough - to barge in and reclaim his place in her life. The things Tyson said about Kyra, the photo in the magazine... They must have gotten to her deeper than she thought, because she was almost surprised to find him at her side, so soon, such intensity in his eyes.

Her heart is still skittering from it.

"Is that okay with you, Kate?"

"Yeah," she answers, dragging her eyes back to the doctor. "Sure."

X-rays, right?

"I'll go check if the machine's available, and send a nurse to come and get you."

She manages a small nod and watches him make his way to the door, then turns her head back to Castle, her eyes tripping over Jordan Shaw on the way. The FBI agent looks distinctly uncomfortable, like maybe she shares Beckett's dislike of hospitals and her general discomfort at being seen in any state of weakness, and Kate feels a tiny surge of affection in her chest.

"I haven't really said thanks yet," she says. It's annoying the way her voice keeps rebelling at her commands, coming out as a ridiculous croak.

Shaw smiles back and steps a little closer, her hair catching a ray of sunlight that has sneaked through the curtains. "I don't know what you mean," she shrugs lightly. "Just did my job, detective. Caught a wanted serial killer. I might be looking at a promotion, actually. So I should be thanking you instead."

Kate huffs a sound that is not really a laugh, but close, and she rests her head against the pillows, lets her eyelids slip shut for a second. "Guess I'm lucky you're so damn good at your job, then."

Jordan makes that sharp humming sound that Beckett remembers from their case together, curiously well, actually, and then she says, "We couldn't reach your father to let him know we'd found you, so I sent an agent out to his cabin. Apparently, that's where he's spent the last year."

Her dad. She hasn't even spared a thought for him. "His cabin," she says quietly. "Did he quit his job in New York?"

"He retired, I think," Shaw answers. "You can ask him yourself when we get a hold of him."

"Right," Beckett murmurs, a little breathless. Talking to her dad - she's not sure she's up for it.

"We should let you rest for now," Jordan says. "I feel you have a long day of tests and prodding ahead." She rolls her eyes and Kate grimaces, suddenly wonders what she agreed to.

"Jordan," she calls when the woman turns to leave. "What about my statement?"

Castle twitches at the word. Shaw spins back, rests an acute gaze on Beckett. "Do you feel up to giving one?" she asks slowly, attentively.

Kate knits her brow, regrets it when she feels the pound of blood at her temples. "Do I have a choice?"

Jordan tilts her head, curls a hand at the foot of the bed. "Well. I'm not saying we wouldn't _like_ a statement, of course. And usually, the sooner the better. But in your case things are a little...different. Nearly two years - it would take you days to go over all of it."

"But the case-" she says weakly, her mind swimming in confusion.

"The case is airtight, with or without your testimony. We have him on multiple murder counts - the ones in New York, including the one he tried to frame Castle for, and that girl in Canada. He was running away for a long time, but the evidence is still here, detective. Still rock solid. Yes, we will need a statement from you if we want to add the kidnapping charge. But even without it? He's facing life."

Oh.

Beckett cuts her eyes down to her hands, tries to decipher her own feelings.

"Look," Shaw says. "Speaking strictly as a FBI agent? Yeah, I want your statement as soon as as possible. But speaking as your friend - which is the main reason I asked to be put on this case - I think you need to take care of yourself first, Kate. Maybe talk to a psychologist, see what _they_ think. We have some really good people here. Ask Doctor Grant when you're done with the X-rays."

Kate lets out a long breath, nods slowly. Okay. Okay. She's probably not up for a statement, to be honest, but it's... It's such a big part of her detective training. Talk to the witness. Get the statement. She's been bracing herself for it since the doctor told her they'd caught Tyson, hasn't she?

And yet. How awful would it feel to tell her story to a stranger, relate the random bouts of choking and the drinking and eating off the floor, the caress of Tyson's knife and his fingers-

But it might help. To share that knowledge with someone, and not have to shoulder the burden alone. The FBI's job is law enforcement; it's their role to deal with this kind of thing. She would just have to recount it once, only once, and then - none of it would be her responsibility anymore. Wouldn't that-

"Kate?"

She startles and lifts her head, finds Castle hovering at her bedside, hesitation in his blue eyes. Jordan is gone. She must have been lost in thought longer than she realized. "Yeah."

"Is there - anything I can do?"

She stares at him, her fingers absentmindedly tugging on the gauze around her wrists. It's a simple question, but the answer-

He doesn't want to hear it. "Distract me," she says instead, giving him the best smile she can. "Don't leave me alone, okay?"

He nods decidedly, relief swirling in his serious blue eyes, and beneath it are other things, too, deeper, richer things that make her breath hitch. She's dreamed about it, fantasized about the slope of his nose and the crinkle of his eyes, the beautiful line of the mouth, and it still feels surreal that he's here with her, physical and tangible, when she's spent so many hours thinking she would die without ever seeing him again.

_I love you_ tangles in her throat and she drops her head, breathes through it, refusing to let the words out. Not now. Not for this.

"Give me your hand," she chokes out, needing to do at least one thing for him. Let him know.

Castle blinks at her, hesitates. "Kate."

She doesn't want to look at the regret, the doubt in his eyes. She wants only to see him smile, wants the beauty of their love, untainted and whole.

"Please," she says, her voice tripping over the word, the hated, hated word. _Say please, Katie._

He starts to say something, but he pauses, seems to decide against it. Very slowly, he lifts his right hand and rests it on the sheet, in her lap, inches away from her own. _Up to you_, it says. She presses her lips together and moves her own fingers carefully, ignoring the fire that throbs in her shoulder.

She starts at the base of his thumb. She traces its contour with her own, carefully, strokes the wide nail with her fingertips, moves on to his index. His skin is warm, a little rough, and his hand is just as she remembers, large and solid, so different from Tyson's. She takes her time mapping it, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, and then she wraps her fingers around his and turns his palm up.

She traces the familiar lines, the soft pads over and over, until finally she grows bolder and presses her palm into his. His fingers curl immediately, holding her there, and - it's a miracle - she doesn't feel the urge to take it back.

* * *

The nurse comes into Kate's room and breaks the fragile moment, so Castle lets go of Beckett's hand, steps back. She holds his gaze over the nurse's shoulder, though, and the emotion in her eyes ties his stomach in knots.

"I can walk," he hears her say firmly when the nurse rolls the chair in front of her bed.

"Honey, don't make me wrestle you into that chair," the woman shoots back, something in her voice that reminds him of Lanie.

Kate sighs but gives in, lets herself be wheeled away, and just that - it tells him that no matter how strong she might look outwardly, how herself, everything is far from okay.

He trails after them, not knowing if he'll be allowed into the X-rays room, but unable to keep away from her anyway. He might not deserve her, but he'll be damned if he lets her out of his sight now that he's got her back. When they reach the designated room the nurse turns a critical look to him, as if she can't quite decide what he's still doing there. He shifts from one foot to the other, opens his mouth to suggest that he wait outside, but Kate is faster than him.

"Can he come with me?" she asks, her voice low but carefully held together.

The woman looks from him to Kate and back, and he thinks she must see how pale Beckett still is, must notice the little twitch of her clenched jaw, because she relents fairly easily.

"Oh, fine," she says. "But he keeps quiet, and out of the way."

"I promise," Castle says readily, and because his eyes are already on Kate he can see the subtle way her neck and shoulders relax, drop imperceptibly. Does she need him so badly?

The room they step into is fairly large, but the machines and equipment make it look smaller; he stands in the corner while the nurse arranges Kate over the X-ray table, noticing every nervous jerk of her body.

He turns his face away, struggles to not think about what Tyson might have done to her that would explain-

Sometimes he really, really hates having a writer's imagination.

It's the first time he's seen her outside her hospital bed, without the protection of the sheets. The white, flimsy gown only covers part of her arms and legs, and he can see just the gauze at her ankles that matches the one around her wrists, the hideous bruises where Tyson must have hit her, held her down. It's suddenly hard to swallow.

Thankfully the X-ray technician comes in, a thirty-something man with huge glasses that make him look a tiny bit like a comic book character. "Ms. Beckett?" he says, giving her a smile.

"Yes." The way she lifts her chin would almost make Castle forget how frail she seems.

"I'm Peter. Nice to meet you. You're here for your leg, right?" the technician says, flipping through a file. "Do you feel like you can stand long enough for the X-rays? We'd get a better picture that way."

Kate sets her jaw and proceeds to carefully maneuver herself out of the wheelchair. It's excruciatingly slow, and only the memory of how she reacted to his touch the first time stops Castle from helping out. There's a sheen of sweat on her forehead when she finally stands up by herself.

"Guess we're going to find out," she tells Peter, and Rick makes a tight fist of his hand.

* * *

By the time Peter finishes radiographing her leg, Kate is swaying with exhaustion, the thud of blood too loud under her skin. She's so very on edge, and she starts badly when the technician touches her shoulder.

"All done," he says, apologetic. "You can sit back in the chair, and I'll call the nurse back so she can take you to your room."

"Okay," she answers, trying not to collapse on the spot. It's terrifying, really, the sensation that her body might give out on her at any moment.

She manages to get herself back to the chair somehow and flops down gracelessly, wincing when her back meets the cool plastic. She sees Castle from the corner of her eye, moving and then stopping, catching himself, and she thinks maybe she was wrong to ask him in here.

He must feel so powerless. She knows she'd hate it.

God, she's so very tired. A trip to the X-ray room and she's ready to pass out from exhaustion. Ridiculous.

When she opens her eyes again - didn't realize she'd closed them - Castle has squatted down so she's eye-level with him. For some reason it makes her throat tighten.

"You okay?" he asks intently, not touching her, and something in her breaks.

_I'm fine_, she should say, but instead she murmurs in a small voice that's completely unlike her, "I want to go."

"Go?" he asks, scooting a little closer. She suddenly yearns for it, contact, being alone with him in the dark. She wants to be in their bed, his huge, king size bed with the incredible mattress, and be able to sleep in whatever position she wants. Sleep until she wakes up and her life doesn't look so bleak.

"Home," she says, forces herself to breathe deep. "I want to go home, Castle. I don't want to be here."

It's a childish thing to say, but it feels so right. Speaking the words out loud is a relief.

"What about your statement?" he asks, and at first she's so relieved that he's not saying no.

Then the words sink in. Her statement. Jeez.

"I don't know that I can," she says, worrying her bottom lip. "I want to, but-"

"It's okay," he tells her, ever-comforting and supportive. "It's okay. You don't have to do it today. But Kate - you'll have to talk to someone about all of it. You know that, right? Not me, but-"

"A psychologist," she finishes, remembering Jordan's words. She thinks back to Dr. Burke, and yeah. Yeah. Maybe she can do that.

Castle's face eases at her tentative acceptance, and for a second he looks so young, so similar to the man she met at that book party years ago that she can't help lifting her hand from the armrest and trailing two fingers down his cheek. His eyes startle to hers, an electric blue in the hospital's lights, and there's a moment when she almost-

"Let's get you back to your room, Ms. Beckett," the nurse declares brightly as she steps back in, and Castle jumps to his feet like a little kid caught.

It would make Kate laugh if she wasn't so desperate for sleep, for quiet, for her own life back. She drops her hand back into her lap, swallows a moan. "All right," she says.

"I'll get you out of here," Castle whispers to her before the nurse can get close enough to hear. "Promise, Beckett."

And despite how unlikely it is that they'll actually let her out, Kate can't help a smile.

* * *

Jordan is waiting for them in Beckett's room, her phone pressed to her ear. There's a flash of relief in her eyes when she sees them.

"Your father on the phone, Kate," she murmurs, and as the nurse helps Beckett back onto her bed Castle finds himself wishing that she'd had a little more time to find her center, find her strength. He can see her tremble against the sheets.

Still, she blows out a long breath and then holds out her hand, takes the call.

"Hey, Dad," she says quietly, and her eyes flutter closed at his answer, her body canting back into the pillows.

"I've got to go back to my office," Shaw sighs wearily. "Can you bring back my phone when she's done?"

"Sure," he answers automatically. He's watching her walk away when he realizes- "Jordan, wait. Can I talk to you for a second?"

She half turns, hesitates. "Quick then, Castle."

"Yes, yes." He turns to Kate, who's speaking softly in the phone. "I'll be right back."

She makes a little wave with her hand that he takes as permission to go, and he leads Jordan outside, a hand at the agent's elbow.

"What," she asks flatly, clearly expecting this to be one of his crazy theories. But it's not.

"Do you-" he swallows, tries again. "How much do you know about what happened to Kate?"

Shaw gives him a long look. Her shoulders straighten; the light in her eyes shifts. All the way from exhausted to alert, and a little wary. "Castle."

"Jordan, I heard the doctor this morning. I know about the bullet scar in her thigh, the malnutrition, the damage to her wrists and ankles-" Talking about it makes him a little sick. "I just want to make sure that I'm not missing anything. That I know enough to be able to help."

"Have you asked her?" Shaw asks pointedly.

"Yeah. But it's - it'll take a while for her to open up about it, if she ever does. I don't want to risk hurting her just because I don't have all the information."

"So what? You need to know if she's been raped, is that it? If she's damaged goods?"

He gapes in shock, the words like a blade twisting in his gut, and Jordan looks down, shakes her head. "Uncalled for. Sorry."

"It's fine," he says when he can breathe again. "We're all a little...on edge."

The FBI agent studies him for a moment, those sharp hazel eyes seeing right through him, before she finally relents. "You've seen the bruises on her neck," she says, lowering her voice even though no one is really paying attention to them. "She was choked, obviously. We just don't know how often." _How often. _"The bullet wound has healed, so it's not a big concern. She's got other scars, though. All over her abdomen." Jordan pauses, gives him an apologetic look. "Thin scars that my medics said were at least a year old. Knife, probably."

He closes his eyes, feels himself pitching. A year ago. Alexis would've been leaving for Paris at the time; he must have been alone at the loft, trying to drown his sorrow in single malt whisky, while she was-

"Castle." Shaw's hand is at his elbow, steadying him, and he opens his eyes again, tries to keep from drowning. "You don't want to do this now. Kate needs you; she needs you to be the man who loves her, not a guilt-ridden wreck who can't look at her without seeing the scars and the blood."

Right. Right. But at the same time-

"I've spent two years wondering, Jordan. Two years wondering where she was, if she was alive, if I was crazy. And now-" Now that he knows, now that he finally has her back "- I need to not wonder anymore."

Shaw nods, lets go of his arm. "All right, then. She has bruises on her thighs, too. I ordered a rape kit, because that's the procedure, but there's little chance it'll be accurate. There's a two-day gap between the moment Tyson left her, and the moment we found her. You've gotta get her to talk to someone, Rick. And by someone, I don't mean you."

"She's open to the idea of a psychologist," he murmurs, can't quite push those terrible images out of his mind. _Tyson's not a rapist, _he tells himself, tries desperately to hang onto that thought.

But he's never have known Tyson to be a kidnapper either.

Fuck, he needs to know. He can't live with the not knowing. And if he can't ask Beckett-

"I need to see Tyson," he declares abruptly, cutting off whatever Jordan was saying.

She stares at him, her lips parted, her eyes slowly narrowing.

"I need to see him," he insists, his body suddenly tingling with an urgency that she doesn't seem to understand. "Jordan. You said he was in the building - just tell me where and call up to say I'm coming-"

"Right," she says, voice heavy with sarcasm. It doesn't sound like a yes. "Sure, Castle. I'm gonna call my guys in lockup, let them know that the victim's boyfriend would like to have a friendly chat with the serial killer who held her for two years. Have you _lost your mind?"_

He opens her mouth to speak, but she isn't done.

"And tell me, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish? You think you have even the smallest chance of getting the truth out of him?" She arches her eyebrows, arms crossed over her chest, waits for an answer that doesn't come. "He kept her for two years. _Two years. _When it would have been so much easier for him to just get rid of her. You know why he did that?"

He hesitates. "Because it would hurt me more?" he murmurs. "Not knowing."

"Because a guy like Tyson gets off on control, on being one step ahead of you. Outsmarting you. And he'll take pleasure in hurting you, yes. So what do you think he would tell you, if you were to get down there?"

"Whatever hurts the most," he answers reluctantly. "Stuff that will get to me."

"Indeed," Shaw confirms, a hint of sadness to her voice. "Because he knows what happened, and you don't, and he'll use that to drive you crazy. And it won't help one bit, because you still won't be able to tell what's true, and what's not."

Rationally, he understands. Her arguments make sense; he knows she's right.

But shit, he's still dying to slam his fist into Tyson's face, let the man know that he didn't win in the end. Kate is free, and she'll heal; she will come back from this even stronger, and God knows he will do anything, anything to help her along the way.

"Kate needs you," Jordan states evenly, as if she just read his mind. "Jerry Tyson doesn't. Leave him alone, Castle. Nothing good would come of a confrontation."

He cuts his eyes down to his shoes, gives a small nod.

She's right. He's just - he's gotta let it go.

"Go back in there," she says gently. "And try not to waste too much time feeling guilty, okay? That's not going to help either of you."

Easier said than done, he thinks, but he grunts his agreement anyway, watches Jordan's quick stride for a second before he turns back to Kate's door.

Knife scars all across her abdomen. _I ordered a rape kit._

He runs a hand down his face and takes a moment to push it all away. Shaw's right. Beckett needs him.


	6. Chapter 6

"No, Dad," Kate says for the fifth time, tilting her head back in a vain attempt to soothe the angry drum of blood against her skull. "Really, I'm fine."

A big fat lie, but what else is she supposed to tell her concerned father? Her concerned father who wants to jump into his car and drive straight to Washington.

She bites her lip, feels the familiar weight of tears behind her eyelids.

"Don't tell me you're fine," Jim is rasping at the other end of the line, his voice broken and indignant at once. "Two years..." He trails off, like he doesn't want to imagine it, and truly she doesn't want him to.

"Dad, I'll be okay. Castle is here. He's going to take me back to New York, and you know him - there's no way he's letting me fly anything other than first class. He'll take care of me," she finishes softly, and for once in her life she doesn't mind speaking the words.

There's a long silence. She respects it, gives her father the time he needs to accept her wish for loneliness, and she shifts her body in the narrow hospital bed, wincing.

Funny, how she's a lot more aware of the hurt and bruises now than she ever was in Tyson's cell. She wanted to draw one of the curtains open earlier, let the sunlight flow in, but she got dizzy just trying to maneuver herself out of bed.

She'll try again later.

"I don't understand why you don't want me there," Jim says suddenly, unhappily. "You know I won't come if you don't want me to, but Katie, you're my little girl-"

"That's exactly why," she murmurs, the words spilling out of her. "Dad - I don't want anyone seeing me like this. Especially not you."

He sighs. She hopes he's not comparing the situation to that summer after she got shot, when he was her only link to the outside world. Things are - very different now.

As awful as it was then, the guilt she felt for ignoring Castle's words, the inferno in her chest every time she moved, the knowledge that the sniper was still out there somewhere - it was nothing compared to those long months with Tyson.

She's screwed up. She knows that much. And there's no way in hell she's letting her father see her until she's had a chance to put herself together.

"All right," Jim finally gives in. "But please, please, Katie. Promise me that you'll take care of yourself. Promise me that you'll let Rick take care of you."

Jeez, he's going to make her cry. "I promise, Dad."

He hangs up and she slowly lets go of Jordan's phone, lets it slip out of her fingers and into her lap. She feels drained, empty; her eyes slide closed without her permission. Maybe things would be different if her mother was still alive, she thinks fleetingly, but her mother is gone, irretrievable, and there's nothing anyone can do about that.

* * *

Kate's still on the phone with her dad when Castle tiptoes back into the bedroom. He hangs back and waits, tries not to listen to her beautiful, broken voice. She sounds exhausted when she ends the call, and he tries to give her a moment to herself - but he can never stay away for long.

"Kate?" he says as he steps further into the room, coming towards the window.

"Hey, Castle," she greets softly, an almost-smile on her lips. At least there's that, right? She still wants him with her.

"How did that go?" he asks, nodding towards the phone that rests on the sheets.

She twists her mouth, shrugs, eyes wandering away before they come back to him. "As well as could be expected, I guess. At least I convinced him to stay put."

Stay put-?

He looks at her in surprise. "You don't want to see him?"

She gives him an assessing, hesitant look, like she doesn't want to hurt his feelings. His heart clenches. "I don't want to see much of anyone," she explains quietly. "I just - I can't. Not right now."

The father in him winces in sympathy for Jim, and he can't help but point out, "But they love you. Not just your dad, but - Ryan, Esposito, Lanie. My mother and Alexis. They're gonna want to see you-"

"Can you just tell them I'm not ready?" she breathes out, levels a glistening, pleading look to him. Oh god. She bites hard into her lower lip, and all he wants is to kiss her, wrap himself around her and never, ever let her get hurt again.

He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Sure. Of course. Anything you need."

She smiles at that, a small, crooked thing, and his chest seriously feels like it's being torn apart.

"What about me?" he says thoughtlessly. "You ready for me?"

Her eyes widen and she doesn't answer, only watches him for a long moment while he mentally beats himself with a stick. Shit, how stupid can he be? And what does that even _mean_, "are you ready for me"-

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, taking a step forward only to see her flinch. "Beckett, seriously - just - just ignore me. I haven't had enough sleep and I have no idea what I'm talking about and-"

"Castle," she interrupts, her voice a little raw, too sharp. She looks anxious and miserable and it's all his doing, all his fault.

"Don't," he begs, breathless, but she's looking steadily at her knees, not at him, and her hands fist over the sheets.

"I don't want you to feel like you _have to _do this," she rasps, knitting her brow. "To - babysit me. I've got nothing to offer, Rick. No promises to make. I don't know-"

"Kate." She's breaking his heart.

"-when I'll be able to..." she continues, flicking a quick look at him before she stares down again, the faintest blush to her cheeks. "I can't - guarantee-"

"Stop," he murmurs, his eyes closed in pain.

"I realize it's a lot to ask for," she says bravely, soldiering on. "A lot to ask for when I can't give back, and I don't even know if your life - if Kyra-?"

He starts as if she's physically hit him, horror trickling through him, and he stares at her in shock. "What?" How on earth-

She regards him evenly, seeing right through him he's sure, and she presses her mouth together, a smile that is not a smile and makes him want to shoot someone.

Tyson, preferably.

"Tyson...told me," she says, taking a long breath. To guard herself against the memory? "I didn't know if he was telling the truth, but he showed me a picture from a magazine, and it seemed real."

Or himself. Yeah. He wouldn't mind shooting himself right now.

"Kate," he croaks, can't even think of something-

"It's okay," she says, and there's so much understanding, so much freaking _compassion_ in her eyes when really she should hate him, she should despise him like he despises himself. "Castle, really. You thought I was dead. I can't even - I can't imagine what that was like. I was stuck with Tyson, yeah, and locked up for so long, but at least - at least I knew you were alive. I had that one comfort, and you-"

"Don't," he growls, sees the startled glance she gives him. "Don't find me excuses, Kate."

"They're not excuses," she objects, and there's a hint of something in her voice. Spunk. Fire. It touches his skin like a live wire, a prickle that makes him stand straight. "You were alone," she says, louder now. "You thought you'd never see me again. Everybody thought-"

"I stopped looking," he interrupts, angry and desperate. He can't listen to his; he can't deal with her forgiveness. "I stopped looking, Kate. I believed I was going to find you, even when they all thought I was crazy, and then... then I stopped. And I don't know how-" Oh shit, he's crying now. He wipes roughly at his cheek, sees her sit up, her whole body orienting to him, inviting. And because he's weak, he goes, sits on the side of her bed and seeks the shelter of her even though he doesn't deserve it at all.

"Shhh," she soothes, resting a light hand to his shoulder. He's hyperaware of her, feels the heat of her hand even through his shirt, and he just...

"I don't know what I would've done if the FBI hadn't found you," he whispers, blood pounding in his chest.

"They found me," she says.

How can she do that? How can she stay so - strong?

"It should've been me," he moans, grits his teeth against the sound. "I should've found you. I'm sorry, Kate-"

"Don't say that," she murmurs, her hand moving slowly, brushing the back of his neck. "Castle, it's not your fault, okay? None of it is. You can't-" she lets out a shaky breath, and he suddenly realizes how close to tears she is, too. "You can't blame yourself. It's not your fault, and I'm here now. It doesn't matter how."

He screws his eyes shut but the sobs come through anyway, racking his chest, and Kate eases him through it, her fingers gently carding through his hair, her mouth pressing warmth to his fabric-clad shoulder.

Oh god, he thinks, shivering as he slowly calms down, his body reacting to Beckett's sweet touch. He needs to call Kyra.

* * *

Dr. Grant sends in a specialist to look at her shoulders, assess the damage done to her muscles and ligaments and tendons (well, something like that). The new doctor is a small, slight man who doesn't say much, and she likes him instantly.

"I'm going to touch your shoulder now," he warns Kate evenly, and then he does, firm and soft at once, and it only sends the slighter shiver through her limbs.

He maneuvers her arm very carefully, but she still can't help a grunt when he brings it at her back. He lets go.

"How did they tie you up? Rope?"

Somehow the words spoken like this, smooth and clinical, lose a good deal of their power.

"Yes," Kate answers, her voice unwavering.

She sees Castle turn away from the foot of her bed, resting his forehead against the window. She'll deal with it later. At least he seems a little stronger than before.

"Your wrists bound together at your back?"

"Yes," she says again. "At first. And then tied over my head, too."

Castle's back ripples with a shudder.

"Wrists together?"

"No, apart. X-shape."

"Okay."

The man - Dr. Williams, his name is - moves on to her left shoulder, repeating the same process, and although Kate's forehead is covered in sweat by the time he releases her arm, she's not in actual pain. There must be some real nice drugs mixed in her IV.

"Well, good news for you," Williams says, and she's grateful when he doesn't smile. "I don't think there's any permanent damage."

"Hurrah," she mutters, and that earns her a little sound from Castle, sob or chuckle, she can't be sure.

But he turns his face towards her, slowly, blue eyes catching the bright light, and there's the shadow of a smile on his mouth. Disapproval and disbelief, too, but that fleeting flare of amusement completely makes up for it, reminds her of who they used to be.

Of the person she hopes she can be again.

"You'll have to be careful though," the doctor says. "Not to overdo it. It'll take a while for your body to get back in shape, and there's no shortcut. You'll need time to recuperate, and you only risk damaging your muscles if you push too far, too fast."

She nods, can already tell that she's heading for a frustrating...what, couple months? "How long, do you think?"

He shrugs. "Impossible to tell. Everybody's different." She stares at him, utterly unhappy with his answer, but Williams is not intimidated. "I'm not giving you a time frame. I know your type. I do that, and you'll work yourself ragged to be ready in the shortest possible amount of time. That's not what you need."

_How do you know what I need, _Kate wants to snap back, but she keeps her mouth shut, fixes her eyes on the sheet instead. Once she's back in the city-

"Don't worry, doctor," Castle says, piping in for the first time since Williams came in. He's turned away from the window, and there's a certainty in his eyes that she's not sure she likes. "I won't let her go overboard."

Her blood rises in indignation; she opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

He's only looking out for her. He's only looking out for her and he thought she was dead, he thought he would never see her again. She slowly presses her mouth together again, tries to quell the furious _It's my life it's my life it's my life _whispering in her head.

If there's something she's learned over the past two years, it's that her life isn't worth much without Castle in it.

* * *

Kate's sent him out to buy her clothes while she gives her statement to the FBI. She had specific requests – _no jeans, a top that's not white_ – and he fulfilled those easily enough, but now he's stuck at the shoes department. Torn between gorgeous stilettos and plain-but-elegant flats.

He runs a finger along the velvet of the stilettos, remembers the too-thin line of her legs, the struggle it was to keep herself upright for the X-rays.

Yeah, flats it is.

Once he's out of the store, he checks his phone. He's been pretty fast, despite the shoe-induced hesitation, but he starts walking back anyway, itching to be at Kate's side when she needs him. He should call Kyra, he thinks, guilt pounding through him in time with his footsteps. The phone is still in his hand; he glances at it and swallows. All right then.

She picks up immediately, like she's been waiting for his call, and he hates himself a little. "Rick."

"Hey," he says, his throat dry. "So. How was lunch with your mother?"

She makes a soft, disparaging sound, but he thinks she's pleased that he remembered. "Awful, as usual. I have no idea why I keep doing this to myself."

He smiles into the phone. "Because you love her."

She hums. "Doesn't that make me a crazy person?"

"Heh. Just a little bit." She lets out a nervous laugh and he can picture her face exactly, the tight curve of anxiety around her eyes and mouth. His chest hurts. "I booked plane tickets for tonight," he says, has to start somewhere. "Kate wants to go home as soon as possible, and the doctor said that if we were careful there was no reason they couldn't release her, so."

He hears Kyra's hesitation. "Does she – have a home?" she asks, almost timidly.

He closes his eyes. "No, not…strictly speaking. I meant. The loft."

Another pause. "She's going to be staying with you."

"I can't think of another way," he says, and it's both a lie and not a lie. He doesn't _want _to think of another way. "Her apartment has someone new living there now, and her dad isn't even in the city anymore. He moved into his cabin upstate, and I think he's sold their old brownstone."

"And her friends from the precinct?"

"She says she's not ready to see anybody yet."

"Only you," Kyra says, and her voice is remarkably neutral, only hints of sadness in it.

He keeps silent. There's nothing to say, no way he can fix this.

"Well," she sighs after a long moment. "Maybe it would be better if we just ended this now, huh?"

The grief flares up without warning in his chest, dark and swirling, catching his heart. He loves her; she's been his rock for six months, has saved him from drowning, and how can it just - be over like that?

"Rick." She's so gentle, always.

"I don't know," he answers, the words barely making it past his throat. "Kyra, I don't know what to do."

There's a sharp intake of breath on her side and he wonders, horrified, if she's crying. But when she does speak her voice is so much more confident than his. "I understand. But I think I know, Rick. I think that - I don't stand a chance against Kate Beckett. Your muse, your great love."

He's going to cry; he tilts his head back, blinking, tries to breathe despite the sorrow that has traitorously snaked around his heart, constricted his lungs.

"I've spent all day thinking about this. How devastated you were when we met again at that party, how you tried to warn me. But I wanted you, Rick. I thought I could be good for you-"

"You were," he rasps desperately, can't believe she would doubt that. "You were so good to me."

"I know," she breathes. "But I had no idea there was...even a chance that Kate was alive. You never talked about it, and the articles I read were so - definitive. It didn't even cross my mind."

"Would you have acted differently? If you'd known?"

She considers for a moment. "Probably not," she says. "It was a very small chance, wasn't it? Everybody thought she was dead."

"Yeah," he murmurs, not sure if he's included in the _everybody._

"But she wasn't," Kyra goes on, her voice cracking a little. "She wasn't, and now she's here, and she's been through all those terrible things. And what kind of person would I be if I tried to keep you from her?"

"Kyra," he chokes out, hears the thin veil of tears in her words.

"I don't want to be that person, Rick. Do you remember, all those years ago - after you solved Sophie's murder? You took me to that empty conference room, made me listen to the tape. The tape that proved Greg loved me."

"I remember." What does that have to do with anything?

"Kate was watching us then. She was trying to be discreet; I think she was a little jealous of me. Not that she would've admitted it, of course."

Beckett was jealous? Really?

"Anyway, I kissed your cheek and walked of that room, and she turned away, pretended to be reading some document. It was very cute. So I stopped by her desk, waited until she looked at me, and I said, _He's all yours."_

"You said _what?" _He can't believe this. Oh, wow. Kate must have been furious-

"He's all yours," Kyra repeats sadly, and understanding rolls through him, puts off his inappropriate spark of excitement. "I just didn't how right I was at time."

He's stunned and wordless. His eyes stray towards a crosswalk, the cars and the people not really registering as he fumbles for a sentence, a word, anything that could possibly make the situation better.

"I love you," he says lamely in the end. What else is there?

"I know," Kyra tells him, something of a smile in her voice. "I know you do. But you love her more."

_Differently_, he wants to say, but he doesn't dare.

"I understand, you know? I mean, I still think about Greg too. Probably more than I should. And if he were to throw himself at my feet and beg my forgiveness for all the things he's said and done... Well, I don't know what I'd do."

Wow. He's got no right to be hurt, really, and yet the shock of it stings a little bit. "I had no idea."

"Not exactly the sort of thing I'd want you to know," she says with a small, breathless laugh. "But it doesn't matter now, does it?"

Well, ouch. "I guess not," he says, unsticking the words from his throat.

"You said late night flight, right? So I have time to swing by the loft and pick up whatever stuff I've left there." Jeez, he didn't even _think_ of that. "Don't worry," she adds, misinterpreting his silence. "I'll be gone before you guys even land."

"That's not-" he starts, but then he can't see the point. They weren't living together exactly, but Kyra does have clothes and things of hers scattered across the loft, and he has no idea how Kate would react to them. Probably best if he doesn't find out. "Thank you," he says instead. He ought to say it a thousand times for it to come anywhere near what he owes Kyra, and yet he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can hear her smile at the other end of the line before she ends the call.


	7. Chapter 7

When they finally get on the elevator together, it doesn't feel real. Kate stands with her shoulder to Castle's, not exactly leaning in but keeping close, and her eyes follow the progression downwards on the screen.

She can feel the muscles in her thighs protesting the standing position, but it doesn't matter.

Home.

He's taking her home.

Her whole being is focused on that fact, her throat tight with everything implied. Familiarity and freedom and fresh air. It's making her light-headed.

They reach the ground floor and the doors slide open on a large white-tiled hall. In front of them the sun is starting to set, golden beams spilling through the glass doors and licking their feet as they step forward; Kate's breath catches in her chest.

Castle must notice her split-second hesitation, because he pauses and turns to her in askance. "Kate?"

"I just..." She clenches her jaw, shakes her head. "Nothing. Let's go."

But this is Castle. The man doesn't give up. "Doesn't look like nothing to me," he says, not budging. He looks at her, blue eyes so serious, and she chews on her inside cheek.

"Really, I'm fine," she tries again, but he only arches his eyebrows at her. Damn it. "Okay," she says quickly, looking away from him. "Um. Tyson never - let me out. He was too careful, or clever, I don't know. I almost made it to the door a couple times, but-" The words die on her tongue and she reminds herself to breathe. In and out.

"You haven't been outside in two years." The desolation in his voice is – too much.

The urge to run away pulses in her, so strong and tempting, and she lifts her eyes to his. "Castle, I'm gonna be terrible at this," she says in an unusual moment of honesty, pushing her hair back with both hands. "Especially if you look at me like that. Okay? I don't – _want_ to tell you anything in the first place, and if you look at me like that-"

"Okay, okay," he agrees eagerly, makes an endearing attempt at controlling his face. "I'll be good, Kate. I promise. I can do it."

She bites her lip, gives herself a second to push back the tears. Jeez, this is exactly why she didn't want to say this stuff in the first place.

Sucking in a breath, Kate looks over to the doors, the setting sun, and she surprises herself by reaching for Castle's hand. "Come on," she says, squeezing his fingers. "We'll do it together."

He squeezes back, his face lighting up for her, tender and so beautiful, and she leads them outside with her heart in her mouth.

* * *

"I can't believe they let us walk out so easily," Kate murmurs, her head rolling against the seat of the cab.

The night's quickly falling, a deep blue that spreads over the sky and brings out the contours of the stars, but he only has eyes for her, the way her hair curls wildly at her neck, the loose, fatigued line of her body.

He's dying to touch her.

"I think Jordan pulled a lot of strings," he answers, burying his twitchy fingers under his thighs. "But they had no reason to hold you. You went through their medical tests, you gave a statement-"

"A half-hour statement," she echoes deprecatingly, but he remembers the bloodless, haunted look on her face after the FBI agent left with her testimony, and he can't help but think that a half-hour was already too much. It's not that he doesn't want Tyson paying for what he did to Kate, to them. Of course he does. But he really wishes the price for that wasn't Beckett's sanity.

"You did good, Kate," he says.

Her eyes slide to his, almost hesitant, but then a smile touches her face softly. "Thanks," she breathes, and she drops her hand from her thigh to the seat between them, palm up and offered.

He hastens to slip his fingers out from under his knee, wriggles them to dry the sweat before he laces them with hers. Her smile has widened; she looks like a laugh could spill out of her. Or close.

She also looks so very tired.

"We could still sleep in DC tonight," he offers again in spite of himself. "Take the plane tomorrow, when we're rested and-"

"I don't want to sleep in a hotel, Castle," she reminds him, that touch of steel to her words.

Right. Right. Plane it is.

He rests his head against the back of his seat, takes a long breath to prepare himself for the wait in the airport, the late flight, the long cab ride once in New York. Kate squeezes his hand lightly and he turns his eyes to her.

"You okay?" she asks.

He huffs a breath at the question, but she keeps looking at him, waiting for his answer. Ah. "Does _okay_ even apply here?"

"You know what I mean," she scolds lightly, a trace of amusement in her voice. "You and your words."

"You love my words," he shoots back, stupidly proud for a second before he realizes his mistake. She'll ask him about Nikki Heat next and he's not ready - he doesn't know what-

But he's wrong. "I do," she agrees simply, not even putting up a fight, and she's beautiful, so beautiful in the dimness of the car, the shadows made by the streetlights dancing across the planes of her face, softening the hard angles of her jaw, the light hollows in her cheeks.

She smiles at him, her eyes dark and endless, and shit-

"I want to kiss you," he rasps, the words reluctantly tumbling out.

She ducks her head, the line of her throat working as she swallows, and desolation spreads through him. "Castle," she says, stops. "I don't - I-" she licks her lips and takes her hand back, won't look at him. "You have Kyra," she finishes quietly, but he's fairly sure that's not her main objection.

"I don't, actually," he answers, trying to adjust to the steady pulse of pain in his chest.

"What?" Her head turns sharply, her eyes finding his. "What do you mean?"

"Kyra and I broke up. Or she broke up with me, I guess. When you were giving your statement."

Kate opens her mouth but doesn't seem to know what to say. She sits very straight, stares ahead, and he's at a loss for words.

"Kate-"

"Please tell me I'm not the reason," she rasps.

He says nothing.

"Oh, god," she moans, burying her face in her hands. "Castle, I - no. This isn't-"

"What was I supposed to do?" he says quietly, fisting his hand so he won't reach out. "Kate. You know I would never have gotten back with Kyra if I'd thought you were alive. And Kyra's not stupid - she knows how I feel. What would you do if you were her, stick around and struggle against the inevitable even if you knew-"

"There's no 'inevitable'," Kate cuts him off sharply, her hand clenched over her thigh, eyes shining in the dimness. "Castle, I told you. I'm not ready. I might never be ready again, and the last thing I need is to feel like I'm wrecking your life just by being back in it-"

"You're not wrecking my life-"

"Really? You learned I was alive, what, last night, this morning? And here we are, twenty hours later, and you've already broken up with the woman you've been dating for a year."

"First of all, it's not a year - we were only dating for eight months." Kate makes a frustrated sound in her throat and presses a hand to her eyes. He ignores her. "And second, why are you so upset? It's my life, Kate. My choices to make."

"You've had a long day," she says on an exhale. "An emotionally challenging day. You shouldn't be making any life-altering choices right now."

He looks at her, the defeated line of her shoulders, the sharp rush of her breath filling the silence, and he thinks maybe he knows why she's reacting so strongly. "It's not - about you," he says slowly, choosing his words, and he hears her little huff of disbelief. "I mean. There's no pressure on you, Kate. It's not about you being ready, not about you being my - girlfriend, partner, whatever." He waits for an acknowledgement, a mark of attention, and she peers at him between her fingers. "Do you really think," he starts, can't help the way his voice catches, "that I could date anyone else, knowing you're alive and alone somewhere?"

She says nothing, but her eyes are intent on his face, and she drops her hand back to her lap.

"Because you'd be wrong," he finishes. The words are rough and charged with tears, but he doesn't care. "There's only you, Kate."

There's a long moment when neither of them speaks, and at last she blinks once, twice, leans back against the headrest.

"I love you too," she says, and it's so quiet, so small a sound he almost misses it.

* * *

"Do you need anything else?" the flight attendant asks, a too-bright smile on her face.

Kate shakes her head, her fingers twitching around the cup of water, and wills the woman to just go away. The flight leaves DC at 11:30pm, is surprisingly full despite the late hour. The cacophony of sounds - all the voices, a baby crying, a couple quietly arguing, the repetitive little music playing in the background - is driving her crazy. After all those months of silence, of hearing only Tyson's voice and the recordings, her brain simply can't deal with the onslaught of information.

The wait in the airport took too much out of her already, the bright neon lights and the noise, the constant movement around her. She thought she hated the hospital room at the FBI headquarters, but she realizes now that there were some positive aspects to it. Like its being empty. And soundproof.

Maybe the hotel wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Well, she's here now. Kate turns to the window, the infinity of the dark night sky, and tries to focus on that to quell the panic rising in her chest. Castle is in the bathroom and her head feels like it's going to _explode_ from the noise, but she controls her breathing and counts backwards from ten, from twenty, from fifty when it doesn't work.

She's still teetering on the edge when Rick comes back, and of course it only takes him one look at her face to know something's wrong.

"Hey. You okay?" he says quietly, sitting down and brushing his hand over hers. Her fingers are white with gripping the armrest.

She has to consciously loosen her jaw, swallow a few times before she can speak. Come on, Beckett. You can do it.

"It's loud," she just says, furious that it's even a problem at all.

But understanding flashes in his eyes, and then he's sitting up, looking around as if he can figure out some way to make it better. Before she can think she has her fingers on his arm, curled around the sleeve of his jacket, and she's tugging him back to her. "I'll be fine, Castle."

He doesn't look convinced, but the contact mollifies him somewhat, and all she can think about is how warm he is against her, the pulse of blood whispering in his wrist.

"Maybe if you just - told me a story," she suggests, leaning her head into the seat. "You were always pretty good at capturing my attention."

He smiles, doesn't look like he's buying her weak attempt at flirting, but he plays along anyway. She's grateful. "What kind of story?" he asks, body turned towards her as he settles into his seat, watches her with those rich blue eyes.

How she's longed for this. The way he looks at her.

Kate breathes long and deep. "The story of the man left alone on the bridge," she says. It's a lot to ask, she knows, but nearly two years - nearly two years of her life were stolen from her, and if she's never getting them back she needs-

Castle's eyes widen, hesitation, reluctance written on his face. "Kate."

"What happened after I fell in the river?" she asks, can't even suppress the entreaty in her voice. She asked Jordan earlier for the story of Tyson's arrest, how the FBI found her, and she's got at least that missing piece - but her rescue isn't the moment she's most interested in. "Castle, I need to know," she insists when he stays silent.

He lets out a sigh, and his hand trembles over hers.

"Fine," he agrees just as the flight attendant stops by their seats, asks them to fasten their seat belts. Castle obeys easily and Kate moves to do the same, picks up the two parts of the buckle-

And pauses.

It's only a security measure. It's for her own good. Her own good. In case the plane crashes, in case anything happens.

"Miss?" the dark-haired woman asks, a note of impatience in her voice. "Seat belt, please."

Kate hears Castle's voice in a daze, probably rising to her defense; she can't make out the words, but after a sharp retort the flight attendant walks away.

"Kate?" he says gently.

Her eyes can't move away from the two parts of the buckle, her brain completing over and over the simple gesture, _lift and push, lift and push_, that her hands refuse to execute.

She can't breathe.

"It's okay," Castle soothes, slowly moving his hand to hers, his thumb skimming her wrist. "It's just a seat belt, Kate. You'll be able to undo it the moment we're up in the air."

She parts her mouth, but can't think of an answer to give except it's _not_, it's not just a seat belt, it's restraint and not being able to move and she just-

"I can't," she chokes out on a sob, letting go of the belt as if it's burned her fingers. "I can't, Castle, God, I - I need air."

She tries to get up, her legs shaking under her, but already the flight attendant is coming towards her, telling her to _sit down_, and then Castle's arms are around her waist, tugging her down until she's slumped onto his lap, panicked and gasping and desperate.

"Hey, hey, hey," he murmurs against her hair, fingers dancing over her arms, her back, her shoulders. "It's okay, Kate. You're okay. I got you."

Her heart hammers against her ribs, a bird in a cage, but she manages to to gulp down a breath, another one. Air is liquid fire down her throat.

"Castle, I can't," she moans, doesn't even recognize her own voice, that wail of anguish.

Her head falls into the crook of his shoulder; her nose seeks shelter into that soft skin, the familiar scent of him. She can feel the warmth of his breath caressing her hair.

"You can," he says, and his confidence is beautiful, the way he's always believed in her, seen more into Kate Beckett than anyone else has. "Because you want to go home, and the seat belt is only for a little while. Just a little while, Kate. And you're strong. God, you're so strong; I've never met anyone with half your determination, your willpower."

The words don't really matter. What matters is the smell of him, heavy and close, the reality of his arms and the way it wraps around her, makes breathing space inside her chest.

She's suddenly very aware of all the ways their bodies are touching, thigh to thigh and chest to chest, the current that travels and tingles between them. It's good, gives her an anchor, a different focus, so she goes with it and lets her mind rearrange along the lines of her attraction.

"Kate?" he nudges softly.

She exhales, a little shaky but still, steadier than she expected, and pushes herself off his shoulder, meeting his eyes. "Yeah."

He studies her calmly, nothing but love on his face, and she knows that with anybody else it would drive her crazy, but-

Not with Castle.

"You good?" he asks. She nods, and then - she doesn't know what happens - it's an out-of-body experience, her leaning back in, the way she drapes her mouth over his, heavy and wet, the delicate press of her tongue to his bottom lip.

The flight attendant loudly clears her throat and Kate breaks away, almost surprised that it's real. "Sir, Miss. Please."

Right.

Beckett looks at Castle, his dazed eyes and open mouth, and then she slides back into her own seat, buckles up quickly before she can think about it.

It doesn't have to be that tight; if she doesn't look down she won't even feel it.

She won't.

Finally satisfied, the attendant moves away after one last pursed-mouth look, and Beckett curls her bottom lip between her teeth, unsure what exactly just happened. It's not fair of her - she can't go telling him that she's not ready and then kiss him the next moment. She shouldn't be kissing anyone, anyway. Right?

"Sorry about that," she says, a little breathless still as she cuts her eyes to him. He's staring at her, shock and a touch of-

Oh. Oh, arousal.

Relief swells in her chest, clogs her throat, and for a glorious minute she can think of nothing else - even with what she's been through, what they've _both_ been through, there's at least something of them, however small, however fragile, that has remained intact.


	8. Chapter 8

Even at one in the morning, JFK airport is buzzing with life, businessmen and their briefcases slaloming between tourists with huge backpacks. Castle keeps Kate's hand firmly in his and trails her towards the exit, the bag of medical supplies he got from the FBI pharmacy cradled to his chest.

He called his usual car service; the driver just texted him which door he parked closest to. Rick pauses in front of a terminal map, making sure he knows where he's going, and Kate lists into his side, forehead resting on his shoulder.

She's so tired. He knows, can see it in the way she moves, her struggle to keep her eyes open.

He feels pretty drained too, actually, and it must be nothing in comparison to her. He presses his cheek to the top of her head, just a second, just because he needs it, and then he tugs gently on her hand. "Come on," he encourages. "We're almost there. You can sleep in the car, Kate. All the way back."

She hums her agreement, lifts her head, allowing him to start moving again. She's as graceless as he's ever seen her, her feet dragging onto the smooth floor of the terminal, and he wants nothing more than to be home already.

He finds Joe pretty easily - he always asks for either Joe or Keith when he orders a car - and leads them to the sleek black sedan, answering the man's smile with one of his own. Kate slides into the car first, her movements a little sloppy; her head nearly bangs into the frame. Castle's heart lurches and he reaches out, but she's already inside, already safe, and he closes his eyes for a second, the day catching up with him.

"You okay, Mr. Castle?" Joe asks.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Rick reassures him with a little wave. "We're just tired."

"Well, the roads are quiet tonight. We should have you back home in half an hour."

"Thanks, Joe," he drops with a grateful look, then sits down in the car next to Kate.

Her eyes are closed, her head heavily tilted into the seat, and for a moment he thinks she's asleep already. But she reaches for him, fingers skidding sleepily over his sleeve before she curls her hand into his, and it leaves him breathless.

"Castle," she whispers drowsily, and he's never seen her seek contact like that, never known her to need it so badly.

He swallows, burrows into the seat, careful to leave his hand between them. Where she can have it.

* * *

"Sir? Mr. Castle. We're here."

He groans and drags a hand down his face, slumber clinging to him like a demanding child. Whoa. Okay. He fell asleep. "Thanks, Joe," he grunts, opening a reluctant eye.

Kate is out cold next to him, her mouth half open, her neck at an odd angle. Castle unfastens his seat belt and stretches, yawning loudly, but she doesn't flinch. Well. He'd carry her upstairs if he thought it was safe - he really doesn't want to wake her - but he's seen her jerk against the doctor's hands. Probably not the smartest idea.

"Want me to help you take her upstairs?" Joe asks, echoing his thoughts. "I have a hidden talent for holding doors."

Castle flashes him a small smile. "Thanks, but she's not a fan of being carried." At least, not the Beckett he knows.

He runs a hand through his hair, tries to decide on the best way to do this. It's frustrating to feel so inadequate. "Kate?" he calls softly.

No reaction. "Kate," he says, louder this time. "Kate, we're here. We're home."

Well, his home. But that's the best he can offer right now. He waits for a handful of seconds, but it doesn't feel like she's heard him at all. His eyes fall to her hand, loose and accessible between them, and he presses his mouth together, sucks in a breath. "Kate," he tries again, this time gently squeezing her fingers.

Her reaction is instantaneous.

She jerks awake and wrenches her hand free in one smooth move, her other fist coming out of nowhere, connecting sharply with his jaw. He yelps, surprise and pain both, and falls back into the seat, holding his jaw.

Kate, he sees when he opens his eyes again, has retreated into the corner made by the seat and the door, her body crouched like an animal's, small and wild and ready to pounce. But it's the look on her face, a melange of fierce resolve and utter terror, that makes his heart stop, his breath catch.

"Mr. Castle?" Joe calls in alarm. "You okay?" The effect of the name on Beckett is startling: awareness creeps into her eyes, her body loosens, the hunted look slowly sliding off her face.

"I'm fine," Rick answers, but it's not enough to keep the guilt from hitting her, darkening her eyes.

"Oh no," she murmurs, setting a knee on the seat and shifting closer, her fingers lifting to feather over his cheek. "Castle. I'm sorry. I didn't - I should've-"

He catches her hand before she can drop it, cradles her fingers until she looks at him again, her lip caught between her teeth. His face burns, and he's dizzy with the pound of blood at his cheekbone, but he's certainly not going to let her blame herself. "Hey, I'll live. I might have to go to the hospital, get plastic surgery to preserve that," he gestures at his own face, "rugged handsomeness, but - you know. I'm loaded anyway, so don't worry about it."

She barely acknowledges his joke, gives only the tiniest flicker of a smile, and he seriously can't take the shame in her eyes. "Please," he says softly, skimming his hand over her forearm. "Kate. It was just an accident." She nods, but she's not looking at him; her jaw's too tight.

He knows better than to try and get her to talk when there's a stranger around, though, so he just opens his door and says, "Let's go home, yeah?"

She doesn't answer, but at least she follows him out of the car.

* * *

In the elevator she keeps away from him, her back resting straight against the opposite wall, and it's all he can do not to sigh out loud. His fingers twitch with the need to touch her, or maybe feel for his throbbing jaw, but he does neither.

"You need to ice it," Beckett declares, not looking at him.

He's tempted to make a joke about stating the obvious, but he swallows it down. Wouldn't help. "We're almost there," he answers stupidly instead, like she doesn't know which floor he lives on. The doors slide open and she immediately steps out, but instead of moving forward and waiting for him at the door, she pauses outside the elevator and lets him take the lead.

That's weird, but his face is killing him, seriously undermining his ability to think straight. He drops it for now, reaching inside his jacket pocket for the key, and he shoves it inside the lock, turns twice. The door opens onto darkness - sometimes he still forgets his mother moved out - and he reaches for the light switch, then turns back to Kate.

She stands on the threshold, uncharacteristically hesitant, and he forgets everything - the heat in his cheek, the phone call to Kyra, the exhaustion that makes his body sway. There's only Kate Beckett standing at his door, long and lithe and herself_,_ when he thought he might never see her again.

"Kate," he rasps, gratitude strangling him again. He opens his arms and steps closer, drawing her against his chest, his hand brushing her back. _Not too tight, not too tight,_ he tells himself, wrestling with his desire to crush her against him. She's stiff at first, but he can feel her mellow in his embrace, the way her forehead skims the injured side of his jaw, her breath at his collarbone, her arm finally rising and coming around his waist. "You're here," he says, and he takes a good long breath of her, can't help the relieved whisper of his heart. "You're home."

She holds on a little tighter, and there's the brush of her mouth at the crook of his neck, slow and soft, heaven. "I'm home," she echoes quietly.

* * *

When she steps inside and her eyes land on the couch, her first instinct is to jump back. Curl in on herself. Kate turns her head sharply, _don't look don't look don't look_, holds it together because Castle's hand is in hers and he will feel anything she does.

At least the kitchen is bare of those memories. She's not sure why - maybe the bugs Tyson placed in the loft didn't quite cover that zone - but she's thankful.

Without taking her jacket off she opens the freezer, noting with a touch of relief that everything is the same, just as she remembered. There's a bag of frozen broccoli amidst all the ice-cream and she reaches for that, teeth gritted against the cold, turns back. Castle is standing very close, closer than she expected, and she can't help starting back with a gasp.

He immediately moves away, shuffling back, lifts an apologetic hand. "Sorry, sorry-"

She shakes her head; it's her fault. She's being an idiot. _You're better than that, Kate. _"Come here," she says, waving the bag of vegetables at him like an enticing toy.

He huffs a laugh - good, that's good - and measuredly comes near, so much taller than her with her flats. It actually makes it easier to press the cold pack to the swollen underside of his jaw, so she steps into his space and does just that. He hisses softly, but doesn't whimper or complain like she expects him to. His eyes are on hers, and although pain flickers in and out, he seems oddly happy. At peace.

His hand brushes her waist, a long skid of his palm before it settles there, and it's only then that she notices how intimately they're standing, bodies canting towards each other in the dim kitchen.

It's-

too much.

Without thinking she steps back, the bag of vegetables nearly falling from her hands, and Castle catches it at the same time, his warm fingers covering hers. She freezes, and he frowns slowly, tries to catch her eyes. "Kate, you're shaking."

She doesn't move, doesn't speak.

"Beckett."

If she looks at him - if she looks at him he will know. He will see; he's always seen right through her.

"Please talk to me," he murmurs, and the sadness in his voice makes her eyes close, her breath hitch.

She can't.

Kate blows out a breath and untangles their fingers, keeping the bag of vegetables in one hand, curling the other in Castle's pocket so she can lead him to the stairs. She can't deal here. It's so late, and she's too tired, the memories so raw and vivid.

If he's surprised he doesn't show it, doesn't ask why she's taking him upstairs when his bedroom is on the floor below. Love wells up inside her for the way he keeps himself open, how _hard _he tries for her. They pass Alexis's door - Alexis who is in Paris now, he told her on the plane - and she easily finds the guest bedroom that she stayed in for a week after her apartment went up in flames.

Seems like another life.

The space hasn't changed much, same warm, earthy color on the walls, same bedspread, same furniture. Only the curtains are different, she thinks, and the fact that it feels emptier now, almost lifeless. It's obvious no one's stayed here for a long time.

She goes for the bed, Castle's hand still cradled in hers, and sits on the edge, watching as he mimics her movement. He's careful to sit on the side that will allow her to ice his jaw, so she lifts the pack again and rests it against the red, puffy flesh. "You'll have a bruise," she sighs, her fingertips running over the already-darkening spot.

He hums, eyes fluttering closed at her touch, doesn't seem to mind as he lets her map his face for a moment. Her index finger traces his eyebrow, the long slope of his nose, caresses his mouth before it goes back up, finds the shell of his ear.

He's so beautiful.

Castle catches her hand when she brushes his cheekbone, and she feels her insides clench. He wants answers; he's not going to let her get away with silence. Even when her silence is only to protect him. "Is it...better up here?" he asks.

Kate shifts the bag of broccoli and meets his eyes. "Yeah," she says, doesn't give him anything else. If he wants to know - then he's gotta help her. She can't do it on her own, not tonight. Maybe not any night.

She watches him think, try to piece the story together. She doesn't want him to succeed, but she's built theory with him enough times to know what he's capable of. "You've got less memories in this room," he muses. "You and I haven't spent any time in here."

She opens her mouth to say something but black spots suddenly swim across her vision, make her sway and drop the frozen vegetables. She hears Castle's voice from far away, the strength of his hand at her shoulder; everything is out of focus, distorted. She breathes slowly, has to force the air in and out of her lungs, and after a moment image and sound clear again.

"Kate." Panic and relief laced in one syllable, the worried tilt of his face.

"Just tired," she slurs, and she realizes she's lying on the bed now, Castle leaning over her. "Castle. Might sleep now." There are things to do, gauze around her wrists to change, but her body is heavy and pulling her under. Maybe she's pushed herself too far.

"Of course," she hears him murmur, a feather of fingers at her cheek. "Sleep, Kate. I'll be around."

Ah, no - not-

It takes a formidable effort of will for her to snag his sleeve, unstick her tongue from her mouth. "Stay," she manages to mumble, and then darkness swallows her.


	9. Chapter 9

She must not have meant it. She didn't mean it. She was half passed out anyway - he can't take her words seriously, can't make it mean more than the delirious utterance of an exhausted woman.

_Stay._

Castle rests his hands on either side of the sink and leans forward, closes his eyes. He's gone back down to his own room, washed his face in the bathroom where he made love to Kyra - when was it, three, four nights ago? The now-familiar melange of guilt and despair tangles in his throat and he breathes slowly, slowly, pushes it down.

He couldn't have known. It's not his fault. That's what Kate said. _Not your fault._

But his eyes stray down to the two toothbrushes that rest by the sink, his and Kyra's, and he can't help thinking for the millionth time that he _should_ have known, should have believed. He should've listened to his gut and not-

Okay, okay. No use thinking about that now. Shaw's right. His guilt's not gonna help Kate; it's not gonna help anyone.

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, switches the light off before he pads back into his bedroom. The bed is made, courtesy of Kyra, he realizes when he thinks back to the way he dashed off this morning. This morning.

It feels like weeks ago.

Well, it was yesterday, technically. Well past midnight now. Castle scratches his eyebrow and shifts from foot to foot, undecided. He should probably sleep in his own bed. Kate - if the incident in the car is any indication, he can't predict how she'll react to waking up next to him. It's bad enough that the bruise at his jaw will be a constant reminder of her hitting him; if she breaks his arm or something, she'll never forgive herself.

And yet he finds his feet leading out of his room, through his study, into the living room. _Stay._ The word pulses in him, strong and right, along with the memory of her grip on his arm, the determination it must have taken for her to push out that single syllable before exhaustion won out.

If he can help Kate, if he can bring the smallest ounce of comfort to her, then it makes it all worth it. The sadness and acceptance in Kyra's voice, the terrible knowledge that Jerry Tyson is alive, the fact that Castle doesn't know half of what was done to Beckett and he already wants to sob every time he thinks of it. The thinness of her, the way she shook at the doctor's hands - those things won't matter as much if he can make feel loved, feel protected and cherished and safe.

Once upstairs he pauses at the guest bedroom's door, suddenly terrified that it was all a dream - that he'll step inside and find the bed empty, find her gone. _Stupid_, he tells his tired mind, and he pushes the door open.

Kate's in bed, just where he left her, her body long and curiously small under the covers. He moves towards her like a magnet pulled to another, his breathing easing with each rise and fall of her chest; in the darkness the bruises on her neck are barely noticeable, mere shadows, and if he squints his eyes the right way he can almost believe that this is a normal night in his life.

That he's been up late writing and now he's just meeting Kate in their bed; that the last two years were only one long, heartbreaking nightmare.

He stands there, weighing the risks of waking her up, wondering if he should go back down. But he doesn't. Gently, gently, he lowers himself to the bed, lifting the covers so he can slide his body in the space. She doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, and he gradually relaxes into the pillow.

He won't touch her; he won't even get close. But she told him to stay, and that's exactly what he's going to do.

Richard Castle closes his eyes, and he falls asleep to the quiet rhythm of Kate Beckett's breaths.

* * *

He's nudged into awareness by the sudden lift of the mattress, a shift that indicates someone leaving the bed. His body feels heavy, his brain sluggish, but curiosity prompts him to slit an eye open. Ow, _ow,_ did he not close the curtains last night? He groans, has half a mind to roll over and go back to sleep when his eye finally adjusts and he sees her.

Kate.

Down on one knee on the hardwood floor, her body crouched like she's rolled out of bed in alarm, her eyes wild.

Whoa, what-

He fumbles to get his elbow under him, prop himself up, and before he can even think of something to say she's had time to look around, awareness dawning on her face as she takes in her surroundings.

"Kate," he rasps, watching her run a hand down her face with a sigh. She gets to her feet, tension seeping out of her, and she sets a knee back onto the mattress, makes her way to him on all four.

She's done this before, a feline seduction that doesn't exactly leave him indifferent, but the weird sense of déjà-vu is offset by the look on her face, a little hopeful, a lot desperate.

Her eyes shimmer as she touches his face carefully, cups his cheek for a moment before her fingers drift down to his neck, caressing and hesitant. His eyelids flutter at her gentleness, the feel of her so early in the morning. "You're real," she murmurs, and it sounds like she's trying to convince herself. "You're real."

His heart is breaking.

He lifts his own hand, taking his time so he won't startle her, and he wraps it around her fingers, careful to avoid the gauze. "I'm real," he says, stroking his thumb over her smooth skin. She presses her mouth together, her gaze so dark and intent on his, and for a second he thinks this is it, she's going to break, collapse into him and sob it out.

He should know better; this is, after all, Kate Beckett.

She draws a long breath through her nose and breaks eye contact, retreating completely, pushing up and away until he has no other choice but to let go of her arm. She slips off the bed and stands still, a second too long maybe, before she turns away. "I need a shower," she drops flatly, and then she's walking out of the bedroom and all he can do is stare at her, the tense line of her back, the determined set of her jaw.

Fuck.

Well, he's certainly awake now.

* * *

Beckett ventures into Alexis's bathroom and regrets it immediately. She's caught glimpses of herself in shop windows, and that tiny mirror in the FBI's bathroom, but until now she hadn't realized how bad it was.

She swallows and steps closer, gathering the dull, dry mass of her hair in one hand. There's a couple of hairbands in the first drawer she opens, and she picks a black one, ties her hair up into a messy bun. With the line of her neck bare, it's more obvious how much weight she's lost. She sheds the long-sleeved shirt that Castle bought for her, has to tug the bra down her body because she can't reach the clasp at her back. Her fingers caress the black lace and her heart hitches at how well he still knows her - not just her size, but her tastes too.

She glances at her reflection again. Her neck is purple and green and blue, angry colors that don't match, and a glance at the bruise is almost enough to conjure the memory of Tyson's hands, their strong, merciless hold. She shivers, closes her eyes for just a moment, then continues her inventory.

The lines of her ribs have never been so pronounced. No one's ever called her fat, and under a certain lighting she could always see the faintest shadow of her ribcage, but this - it's no shadow.

Her right side is bruised as well, older, yellowing marks, and she doesn't even remember the exact occasion when Tyson graced her with that particular punch. Maybe that was just from him holding her down.

Her fingertips run lightly over the faded scars that cover her abdomen. _That _memory is still sharp and clear in her mind - could be because of the pain, but she's more inclined to think it's because it was so unlike Tyson to use a knife. He likes to feel the ripple of flesh under his hands, doesn't he? It's surprising he uses a rope at all to strangle his victims. Probably for the clean scene it leaves, no personal marks linking back to him.

Slowly, Kate reaches for the zipper of her pants. _N__o jeans, _she told Castle. When Tyson bought her clothes - it happened twice, when he was trying to get in her good graces - it would always be jeans and a white t-shirt. She's had enough of those for a lifetime.

The soft dress pants come off fairly easily, and out of some misplaced modesty she keeps the panties on. Her thighs are too thin, she sees with a sigh, none of that fat she used to eye critically in the mirror. Hand shapes printed into her skin there, too, but they're less distinct, the dig of his thumb much more noticeable than the rest of the hand.

She averts her eyes, her arms coming up to wrap around her waist - as if she can physically ward off the reminiscences.

She's still exhausted, but standing is easier yesterday, and the wide shower stall calls sweetly to her abused body. Kate starts the water, and only then remembers her wrists and ankles. She could take the gauze off, but the wounds made by the rope are still fresh and raw - not good. What she needs is a protection, a plastic bag, something.

But she's not getting out of here. No way. She can't walk out and see the sorrow ripple in Castle's eyes; she can't.

Kate quickly inventories the contents of the cabinets, the shelves, and finally her eyes stop on the small, empty garbage can on the floor. It will do. She grabs the bag that lines the can, checks that there's really nothing in it before she rips it in four. She secures each of the pieces around the gauze as best as she can, and at last, at last she steps under the spray.

The water pounds hot on her face, her chest, her shoulders, and before she's even aware of it the tears are suddenly streaming down her cheeks, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. It's not just this morning; it's not just waking up with Castle terrified that it's a dream, that Tyson has somehow tricked her brain into believing she's back at the loft. It's not just his heart breaking in his blue eyes, the caress of his hand over hers.

It's the brutal, never-ending realization that it's over, over, that she's never waking up again to Tyson's fingers.

Oh god, oh god _thank you._

She collapses into the wall, doesn't even shiver at the contact of cold tile, just lets herself slide down until she's sitting in the shower stall, her head thrown back as she struggles for breath. The steam is oppressive, is everywhere, but she won't turn the water off, not when her body is trembling like a weak, frightened bird.

A rasp at the door makes her jump, muscles tensing instinctively, and she stupidly tries to wipe her cheeks when her whole face is equally wet.

"Kate?" His voice is tentative but strong - _just like his arms around her would be -_ and for a second she sits there paralyzed, caught between contradicting urges. "Kate, are you in here?"

Where does he think she is? Surely he can hear the water running. She swallows a sob, pressing her fingers to her mouth, wills him to go away. _Just go away, Castle._

"Beckett," he calls again, and this time he sounds distinctly worried. "Can you hear me? I'm gonna come inside if you don't answer me."

Oh, no. No no no-

"I'm fine," she rasps, but her voice is thready, covered by the relentless flow of water, and she sees the doorknob turn as she stumbles onto her feet. The tile is slippery, her movements not as confident as she wishes they were, and of course she loses her balance, slams an injured wrist into the shower door.

She lets out a muffled cry, surprise and pain both, and the steamed door opens to reveal a concerned Castle, his hand stretched out to help.

"I'm fine," she grunts again, gritting her teeth. But the contrast between the burning-hot shower and the much-cooler air from outside makes her head throb, and she has to curl her hand around his bicep for balance. Damn it.

"Beckett," he murmurs, too gentle, always too gentle, and he tugs her out of the shower, brings her close even though she's not done, she's not done and she's soaked.

"I need to wash my hair," she tries to say (it's better than the _don't look at me_ that burns in her throat) but she must not be coherent at all, or else he's not listening, because he's wrapping her in a large blue towel and pressing her to his chest. That's when she realizes she's shaking. Hard. "I wanted him to kill me," she says, and she can't understand why. It's like someone else has taken control, is speaking through her mouth.

Castle tenses against her. Some horrified part of her mind screams _shut up, shut up, shut the hell up, _but the words keep tumbling out unimpeded. Nothing she can do. "I provoked him that day. The day he went and killed the woman. I wanted it to be over; I wanted it to stop, Castle. I pushed and pushed and pushed until he had his hands at my neck and he was squeezing and I thought, yes, _please_."

Rick's gone very still, but his arms are still around her, his hands warm against her back, and she just can't stop. "But he didn't. Instead he went and killed her and it's my fault she is dead, my fault. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I gave up and lost faith, but I just - I couldn't take it anymore, Rick, I'm sorry-"

"Shh," he soothes, his mouth light, brushing her temple. "It's okay, Kate. It's okay."

Her cheeks are wet again, not the shower this time, and she thought she was all cried out but it seems she was wrong. She weeps quietly at the crook of his neck, her hands clinging onto his shirt while he holds her, rocks her, his voice soft at her ear. "You held on for so long. So long, Kate, and I'm so proud of you."

She closes her eyes tighter at that, because no, no, he doesn't understand, it was nothing to be proud of - the everyday fight, not being able to move, having to chat with Jerry Tyson and pretend things were fine. Say _please_ if she wanted to get food.

_She'_s not proud of it.

"And I'm so damn grateful," he murmurs fervently. "So damn grateful for your strength and your stubbornness and the way you never, ever give up. Because it brought you back to me, Kate. I thought you were lost forever, and instead you're here now, and I... I missed you so much," he says, the sound traveling straight to her heart.

Oh, god. She missed him too.

She presses into him, her tears to his skin, and feathers her lips over the side of his neck, her arms solidly hooked at his waist.

"I thought about you everyday," she whispers, and somehow the memory's not quite so painful when he's here, his heart beating against hers. "When I woke up, when I went to sleep - you kept me going, Castle. Every day, you kept me going."


	10. Chapter 10

He kept her clothes.

Even after almost two years, after thinking she was dead, he still has clothes of hers in his home. Kate curls her fingers around the soft silk of her favorite shirt and digs her teeth into her bottom lip, struggles hard against tears.

Enough crying. She's done enough crying for today.

There's only a small pile of things that Castle deposited on the bed, a couple shirts, a pair of dark blue pants, a green sweater that looked – _looks – _lovely with her eyes. But that small pile of things is…everything.

Kate lets out a measured breath, strokes her hand to her clothes. _Hers_. She wouldn't normally call herself materialistic; the few things she values are sentimental possessions, her mother's ring or her father's watch - it's not about the money, not about the ownership. It's about the memory attached to them. She smoothes her thumb over the edge of the freshly-wrapped gauze around her wrist, where the watch should be, and she wonders if Castle has it.

She wasn't wearing it that night at the bridge - wasn't wearing the ring either, actually. So lucky. Tyson would've loved to take them away from her. But no, both ring and watch were safely tucked in the jewelry box at her apartment, and since there's someone new living at her place now (she tries not to let it matter, not to let it hurt) it means either Castle or her dad must have all of her stuff. Put it in storage, maybe?

Her breath catches at the vision, her life stored away in boxes, and she grips the shirt harder, has to remind herself.

Take it slow. One step at a time.

Kate presses her lips together and starts getting dressed.

* * *

Castle stands awkwardly in his kitchen, tries to remember what he's doing here. His mind keeps tripping over itself, traveling back to Beckett and that moment in the bathroom, when she cried in his arms and apologized for wanting to die, and he's not sure how he's supposed to let go of that ever.

_Focus, Rick._

Right. Food. He said he'd make them food. He was astonished when he saw that they'd slept until half past twelve; it's true that they went to bed pretty damn late - and they both needed the sleep - but he doesn't remember Beckett ever waking up after nine.

Brunch it is then.

He makes himself move towards the fridge, pull the door open. He's got everything he might need, eggs, some vegetables and fresh fruit, even bacon stacked in a corner, but it makes him feel guilty rather than triumphant. Kyra dragged him out to shop for groceries last weekend, and - yeah. She's the reason his fridge is full.

He hesitates for a second, but then the image of Kate wrapped in the towel flashes before his eyes, her too-thin arms and legs, the jut of her ribs, and he grabs eggs, tomatoes, bacon, whatever he can find.

He offered to bring her breakfast in bed, because she was still unsteady on her feet when he finally stopped clinging to her like she was his own personal lifebelt, but she frowned and shook her head no. _I'll have breakfast in the kitchen like a normal person, Castle - _that's what her eyes said.

He sighs as he reaches for a pan, a mixing bowl, a wooden spoon. She needs to see a therapist. He doesn't want to be the one to bring it up again, he really doesn't, but if today she doesn't say anything...

Castle grabs the eggs and starts breaking and pouring them into the bowl, thinking again of last night, of the way Kate's body relaxed the moment they reached the guest bedroom. Is it just that she doesn't want to sleep where Kyra slept – which, frankly, he wouldn't blame her for – or is there more to it?

The need to know pools in his gut, makes his chest tight, and he nearly jumps when her voice breaks him out of it. "Castle."

"Hey," he says, too bright, too cheerful. He winces inside. "How are you feeling?" Her hair is scraped up into a tight bun, the line of her cheekbones sharper in the morning light, but her eyes – her eyes are soft.

"Better," she says, and he actually believes her.

She comes closer, perching on one of the stools with none of her usual grace, but the way she sets her elbows on the counter and assesses the situation is so completely Beckett that it makes him ache. "So. What can I do?"

He opens his mouth, a few different versions of _You're a guest, don't you dare do a damn thing_ on his tongue, but then she lifts dark eyes to him and he sees.

She needs this. He doesn't know how Tyson fed her - oh god, so many things he finds himself wondering about that he _doesn't want _to be wondering about - but she obviously needs to be given back some sort of control over her food. Over her life.

He finds a knife, a cutting board, and sets them in front of her. "How do you feel about slicing tomatoes?"

She watches him for a second longer than she needs, her lips parting on a slow smile, and he's fairly confident that the tender little flash in her eyes is an unspoken _thank you._

* * *

He manages to be good for about an hour. He makes her pancakes and tells her stories about his time in Paris with his daughter, eats as much as his nervous stomach will allow. Of course they end up with too much food, but that's good really, means there'll be leftovers in the fridge and Kate can help herself whenever.

He's been good, really he has, but when she sets her fork down next to her unfinished plate he just can't help himself. "Kate, you've hardly-"

The look she gives him makes him swallow the rest of that sentence back. Her lashes sweep her cheeks as she glances down at the food, her shoulders stiff, struggling with things that he wishes she would share with him. "Castle, I know that you mean well," she says quietly. "That you just want me to get better. But staring at me while I eat isn't gonna help, and trying to shove food down my throat isn't gonna help either, okay?"

He nods slowly, then realizes she's not looking at him. "Okay," he says, has to clear his throat to get it out. He can't stop the questions from swirling in his mind though, a dizzying, maddening dance that has him silent for a moment.

Beckett must know exactly what's going on with him, because she redirects the conversation before his tangled thoughts can be made into words. "Do you know what happened to my mother's ring? Or my dad's watch? They would've been in the jewelry box in my apartment-"

"Ah, yeah," he says, can't believe he didn't think of it earlier. "Yeah, they're here. In my dresser. First drawer. I got them when we had to - pack up your place." Even though she's standing in front of him, the memory still hurts. "Your dad said he didn't want them."

Kate closes her eyes; for a second her face is a mask of grief, and then she gets it under control again. "In your room," she says, not quite a question but - a request, maybe.

Huh. "Yeah," he replies. "You wanna go get them while I clean this up?"

Her jaw clenches. There's a part of him that just wants to go get her things, make this easy on her, but he's too desperate to _know_; he can't stop himself. "You _don't_ want to go," he observes to himself, his brain actively working. "Is this about Kyra?"

Her eyes startle up to his. Oh. Not about Kyra.

"Tyson," he rasps, more a curse than anything else. Kate looks wary, and brittle; if Rick'd been holding a glass it would be shattered on the floor by now. "What did he do? Kate, what did he do?"

She eases off the stool, eyes averted, and the pattern of angry bruises along her neck, the hesitation in her step make his heart pound in anger. Without thinking he circles around the kitchen island and stands in front of her, blocking her way out; barefoot she is considerably shorter than him, so slender that he feels an immediate flicker of guilt for trying to intimidate her.

She pauses, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wishes she would just _look _at him."Beckett," he calls sharply, and the reluctant lift of his eyes rewards him. "I need you to tell me."

"You don't," she says, shaking her head. "You don't want to know, Castle."

"I do," he counters, and he means it. He really, really means it. "I do want to know. Please, Kate."

She grits her teeth and he expects to have to fight some more, to have to drag each word from her unwilling throat, and maybe it's not worth it after all and he's half-considering giving up when she speaks. "There were recordings that Tyson made me listen to," she says, her voice absolutely flat and betraying nothing. "Recordings of - you and me."

What?

"You remember how he watched you for weeks when he was trying to set you up for murder? We found all those surveillance photos." She seems to be waiting for some sort of response, so he nods, anxiety fluttering in his chest. "He wasn't just watching. He must've gotten inside the loft at some point, placed bugs around. He was listening in for some time."

Listening in. Castle suddenly pictures Jerry Tyson with headphones on, holed up in that empty building, a sick smile on his face as he listened to Kate-

Nausea spirals through him. Recordings. Of you and me. "No," he breathes, watching a face for an indication that he's wrong, that he's mistaken her words. But all he sees is regret, desolation, a lingering disgust that makes him want to throw up.

"We had a pretty healthy sex life, did you know that?" she jokes, attempts to joke with a thin smile.

Not okay. Oh god. Kate. _So not okay._

He doesn't have words; he doesn't have anything to combat the horror rising in his chest, the despair that fills him. She was made to listen to sex tapes of them? For how long? How many times? And what was Tyson-

Castle steps back, tries to breathe through it. Bugs. "Was it only you and me?" he asks. He's not sure he can take the answer to that question.

Incomprehension flashes in her eyes, but then she catches his meaning. "Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I - the recordings were all from before he took me. The bugs probably had too short a range for him to, you know. Canada's pretty far away."

And now he's made her uncomfortable on top of sorry and sad. Good job, Castle.

But he - he's got no idea how to deal with this. None. He keeps wishing for impossible things - that he'd been able to get to her earlier, that he'd never let Tyson take her at all, that he'd let the son of a bitch put him in prison and maybe... Maybe what? What would it have changed?

"Castle, it wasn't so bad," Kate says, looking worried - worried, of all things, and suddenly he just can't keep it in anymore.

"_It wasn't so bad?_" he throws back at her, his voice breaking with all kinds of emotion. "It wasn't so bad, Kate? Which part of it exactly are you talking about? The part when I thought you were dead and you were actually locked up in some basement hundreds of miles away, held by a psychopathic killer? The part when he hit you and choked you and shot you in the leg? Or the part when he made you listen to recordings of us making love? Because really, I have no idea how any of that could've been not so bad, or how you can even listen to my voice without wanting to throw up or run away."

She stares back at him, her mouth open, and a lone tear slowly trails down her cheek. He still feels like he could hit somebody.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I shouldn't have - I'm sorry."

And before he can even ask what the hell she's talking about, she spins around and walks to the door and leaves.

* * *

Some part of him wants to run after her, of course, but he's too indignant, too angry: no good would come of it. It's Tyson he's furious at, and himself - not Kate, never Kate - but it doesn't change the fact that his blood is boiling in his veins, and he can't be rational right now.

Can't be what she needs.

His fists are tight, his knuckles white, and when he tries to relax his fingers don't even respond. Her words still echo in his mind so he walks back to the kitchen island, grabs the nearest glass and hurls it against the wall. It shatters satisfyingly, provides him a split second of relief before his chest twists again.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck-

He presses a hand to his mouth, a barrier against the scream that wants out, and he reaches for his phone in his back pocket. But shit - she doesn't have a cell yet. This is what he should have bought for her yesterday, instead of standing in the shoe department for ten minutes like a moron, trying to decide if she would like boots better than flats.

He's a freaking idiot.

Right. Okay.

She will come back. She will. She walked out because he lost it and went off at her (so smart of him, really, begging her to tell him things and then proving unable to handle them. He'll be lucky if she even says a word next time). Realistically though, she doesn't have anywhere to go right now - except maybe the precinct, and she was too adamant about not wanting to see anyone. She wouldn't go to the 12th.

Did she even have her shoes on?

He dials the doorman downstairs. "Hey, Tony. It's Rick Castle. Did you see a woman walk out of the building about five minutes ago? Tall, thin, brown hair. Very pretty. She's wearing a green blouse and black pants-"

"I haven't seen anyone, sir," Tony assures him. "I was watching the lobby for the last thirty minutes, and nobody walked past."

Oh. Oh, good. "Great," Castle says, his voice pitching embarrassingly. "Thanks, Tony."

So she's somewhere in the building, then. Fine. Okay. He can deal with that; he can wait for her to come back to him when she feels ready. In the meantime-

There is one thing he can do for her. He thumbs through his contacts, vaguely remembers that someone gave him this number - was it Lanie? - and he saved it without really intending to use it.

There it is.

Castle rubs a hand down his face, gulping down a breath, and he presses _call._

* * *

It's cold outside, and Beckett's not dressed for it. The wind bites through the thin cotton of her blouse, sweeps into the legs of her pants, flings her dark hair across her face. She keeps advancing anyway, not ready to go back yet.

If she lays down, she finds, and puts her back to the concrete, she doesn't feel the wind half as much.

The sky above her is a sea of clouds, dark masses that roll like waves in preparation for the storm. The layers of deep and deeper grey are mesmerizing, a richness, a complexity to them that steals Kate's breath; her chest contracts and then expands, finally, with what feels like her first clean breath in months. Or years.

She spreads her arms, tempted to close her eyes, but the view is too beautiful; she doesn't want to miss any of it. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a low warning, and Beckett smiles as she tilts her face towards the quickly-shifting clouds.

_Show me what you've got._

In a few moments the sky opens up and the downpour starts, soaking through her clothes in a matter of seconds. It only makes her grin. She won't close her eyes to it, the gale, the rain, the sudden, impressive flashes of lightning.

It's amazing.

To be a part of the world again, to be small and insignificant in the face of the universe. To be one among the millions of people in New York's streets who must be running away from the rain right now, seeking shelter in doorways or struggling to get their umbrellas to open, or just ducking their heads and quickening their pace like any good New Yorker would.

This is what she's been craving, what she's been so desperate for. Anonymity, perspective, a sense of proportions. Everything the grey walls of her tiny cell denied her day after day.

Her tears mingle with the rain; her chest keeps rising and falling, and peace uncurls deep within her. The tempest is lashing out, water pounding now, bursts of lightning more and more frequent, but she doesn't feel, doesn't hear anything past the calm that has settled in her heart.

It doesn't make up for the time she spent imprisoned, those long days without ever seeing the sun, feeling the breeze on her face. It's not about that. It-

heals?

It heals her.

Her soul has been cramped, shoved into a small corner and taught to hibernate while her life was in Tyson's hands, and now - now she can breathe again.

Some distant part of her hears the door to the roof terrace open, but it doesn't really register until Castle is at her side, a little frantic, urging her to get up. His hands are pressing, too eager, and she opens her eyes slowly, can't find the words to explain.

"What are you doing?" he exclaims as he pulls her to her feet, already drenched himself. "Kate, why are you out here in the rain? If you're trying to punish yourself - shit, you're soaked. How did you even remember the code for the door? We only came here once and still you remember the freaking code? I looked everywhere and I didn't think of the roof until now-"

He's dragging her towards the door, her body too limp and satisfied to resist, but she doesn't want to go - she wants to take a second, just a second, and could he stop yanking on her like she's some sulking, willful child?

"Castle. Castle," she calls at last, finds her words, her balance. She grounds her feet and pulls her arm back, hands coming up to gather the wet mass of her hair, meets his eyes steadily when he glances back in incomprehension. "You're killing my buzz," she says lightly, her mouth curving up, hoping humor will bring him back from that dark, anguished spot.

But he only stares, concern and that fierce protectiveness on his face. The smile falls from her lips. "Your buzz? I'm sorry, Kate, I'm not sure what _buzz_ you can get from standing in the rain in the middle of November, wearing nothing and freezing to death-"

His words die at her lips, and she curls her palms at his jaw, her mouth pressed over his, her heart pounding in relief when he doesn't push her away. He's too far gone, the cloak of worry too thick around him; she needs to bring him back to her first, if she wants a chance to explain.

And she does want to explain. It's important, for some reason, that he understand. So she keeps kissing him until his lips are warm, and soft under hers, and she sneaks a little glimpse of tongue, testing the waters.

His mouth parts on a sigh, his embrace tightening around hers. Kate hums against him, curls her fingers in his hair as her blood heats up; she can taste the urgency, the drowning need at the back of his kiss, and she gentles him slowly, breaks away to nudge their noses together.

He's breathless - so is she - but at least the helpless fury is gone from his eyes. She brushes her lips over his chin, drops back down, her feet aching from standing on tiptoe.

"I'm okay," she assures him, hands squeezing lightly at his biceps. "I just came out here because I needed space. That's all, Rick. No punishment, promise."

He lets out a heavy sigh, presses her fingers. "You're chilled," he murmurs, and she realizes the rain is thinning, coming to an end.

"I'm okay," she repeats, leaning her forehead into his neck.

His free hand comes up to her shoulder, strokes once, twice. "All right," he says, trying for her. "Well, maybe next time you want to be outside, you can choose a moment when the skies are not falling down on us?"

She huffs a laugh, half a shiver, gives him a soft look. "I can do that," she says, and she detaches herself from him, leads him back inside by the tip of her fingers.

* * *

The way she looks, completely soaked, hair clinging to her neck and water shimmering at her eyelashes - he can't help but be reminded of that night after Maddox and the roof, when she showed up at his door with all that brilliant love in her eyes.

Kate leans against the wall, letting him go first because he's the one with the key, and there's something in her barely-there smile, in the relaxed green of her gaze, that arrests him for a second.

Stronger, he realizes, fumbling for keys, forcing his eyes away. She looks stronger, more balanced than she has all morning, and all day yesterday.

More Beckett.

If this is what the roof does to her, he'll take her up there himself every single day.

She comes in after him and he closes the door, turns to see her shiver, arms wrapped around herself.

"What are you waiting for?" he grouses, can't believe she's actually making him say this. "Shower, Beckett. Preferably before you get pneumonia and I have to call an ambulance to get you out of here."

She doesn't laugh, but she doesn't bristle either. She just watches him with those huge, liquid eyes, and his mind trips, eagerly providing him with a dozen different meanings, his favorite being-

-but no. No.

He's not getting in the shower with her, no matter how much he might want it, no matter how much she might think she wants it, too. He's seen the bruises; just this morning she was sobbing in his arms and he knows, he knows that whatever peace she's found is fragile and probably temporary. He won't ruin it for her.

"Come on, Kate," he says, curling light fingers around her shoulder and pushing her towards the stairs, his heart stuttering when his thumb catches over the strap of her bra. Her shirt sticks to her frame like a second skin, every curve brought into relief, and his brain is apparently stupid enough to stutter towards arousal.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs and takes his hand off her, doesn't miss the way her body cants towards him, her head turning to him in something like expectation.

It's not just him then. But that doesn't change anything.

"You go upstairs and get rid of those clothes," he says, pushing her forward. "I'll shower in my bathroom, and I'll bring you a couple more towels in case you need them."

She's still watching him, that unnerving stare, and if he doesn't get away from her soon he's going to do something they will both really regret. Really, really regret.

He swallows and leans forward - _no no no_, his instinct screams in panic - brushes his mouth over her cheekbone, delicately. Not her lips, not her lips; with a huge effort he rocks back, feels his chest pound with either relief or disappointment. Hard to tell.

"I love you," he says stupidly, the words tumbling from him before he's even thought them.

Kate blinks, as if waking from a daze, and she draws a long breath, steps back. Her mouth twists a little, not quite a smile, while her eyes drop to the floor.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and she spins, walks up the stairs without looking back.

He's had time to drip water all over the floor before he remembers to move.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N**: Sorry about the delay on this one. Exciting things have been happening in my life that I could not exactly ignore :). That, and this chapter has been fighting me. I'm not sure I'm completely satisfied with it even now, but I think I've kept you lovely people waiting long enough. So enjoy.

* * *

Kate tiptoes out of the shower, mindful of her body, of her quivering, too-weak muscles. Her hair is finally washed, smelling sweetly of a rosemary shampoo that must've been Alexis's, but the effort has drained the energy right out of her. She wraps herself in one of Castle's luxurious towels and leans heavily against the wall, closes her eyes for a moment.

Easy. She's gotta go easy on herself. It will mean fighting her every instinct, because all she wants is to push her body and _do_ _things_, but she can't be stupid about this. There's too much at stake. The look on Castle's face when he found her on the roof, that heart-wrenching combination of disbelief, anger and despair - it reminded her of how much he's been through, how much she's hurt him, willingly or not. How much she has to fix and make up for.

And she wants to. She wants to put the pieces of his broken heart together again, cradle it in her hands until it's strong enough to beat on its own. The task is daunting, considering the state she's in, and she can't help thinking with a pang to her chest that maybe Kyra would've been fitter for it.

Beckett swallows and shakes her head at herself, opens her eyes again.

Jerry Tyson is staring at her in the mirror.

She cries out, a raw sound that scrapes her throat, and spins around with an arm raised for protection, her other elbow slamming into the cabinet.

But the bathroom is empty. She's alone.

Kate backs into the corner made by the sink and the wall and grips the towel rail, tries to quell the riot of her breath, the wild terrified pound of blood in her ears. Not real. _It's no__t real, Kate. _

But despite that knowledge it takes a long time for her heart to settle down.

* * *

Castle finishes getting dressed and then retrieves Kate's watch and ring from his top drawer, feels the familiar curl of grief in his chest. The days he spent cleaning up Kate's apartment with Jim, packing her life into boxes - they're easily among the worst of his life. He remembers trying to tuck one of her elephants between the books, how it wouldn't quite fit and that little raised trump seemed to mock him, the smiling eyes tearing at his heart. Not even knowing that she's here now, safe, alive, can completely erase the terrible finality of that moment at her place.

When he walks into the living room, there's no sign of Beckett. He hesitates for a split second. He could go to the kitchen and make hot chocolate with marshmallows on top, wait for her to come down. Or he could go upstairs and check that she doesn't need any help, that she's not passed out in the shower, that she's still breathing. The second option holds too much appeal for him to resist.

"Kate?" he calls as he reaches the top of the stairs.

He expects her to be in the bathroom still, but her muffled answer comes through the half-open door of the guest room. He heads that way and knocks (better safe than sorry), hears the soft huff of a laugh that Beckett lets out. "Come in," she says.

She's sitting on the bed, wearing the black pants he bought her yesterday and a grey sweater that he remembers quite well. The turtleneck conceals most of the multicolor, hand-shaped bruises, and her still-wet hair tumbles down her back. Castle comes closer, then stops when he sees what she's doing. Her wrists are bare, the skin an angry red where the rope bit into it; Kate is applying the cream that the FBI doctor gave her to help it scar. Her gestures are slow and smooth, circling over and over, but the sight of her thin wrist rubbed raw makes him slightly nauseous.

"I'm almost done," she says, and on the last word she lifts her head to look at him. He hasn't had time to wipe the horror, the desolation off his face; she sees it instantly - of course - and her hand pauses. For a moment they just stare at each other, the sorrow in his chest mirrored in her eyes, until finally he has to look away.

"Sorry," he rasps. He's not sure what he's apologizing for, but there's a variety of options for her to choose from.

"Castle." Her voice is a little thick, but when he chances a glance at her he's relieved to see she isn't crying. He doesn't think he can deal with her tears right now. "Sit," she says, nodding at the bed. He obeys her cautiously, as if be jostling the mattress too hard he might hurt her farther. His hands are fists against his stomach; when he opens them he's almost surprised to see the watch, the ring.

"I brought you," he starts, but he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. _Your life,_ he wants to say, except that's a stupid expectation to have of an old watch and an engagement ring. It's not like those two items together can fix her, can remake her into the person she was. _Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD._

Her face softens, though, and her eyes are bright when she reaches out, runs her fingers over the face of the watch. "Thank you," she says, letting their hands touch for a moment before she takes both objects from him. She holds them close for a handful of seconds and then sets them gently in her lap, flicks her eyes over Castle's face. "Do you want to do it?"

It takes him a second to realize what she means. Oh. Working the cream into her other wrist. He opens his mouth to say no, that he doesn't think he can, but then he looks down at her injured arm, that pale skin he worshipped with his lips, and he can't believe he'd refuse an opportunity to touch her - a chance to repair some of the damage that Tyson's done. "Sure."

She gives him the tube and he uncaps it, squeezes out a dollop of cream into his palm.

"You'll need more than that," she says, her words quiet, controlled.

So he gets more cream out, takes her right wrist between his hands. She's shaking a little, fatigue maybe, or the physical contact; rather than asking her, he runs his thumb over the back of her hand, lightly, traces her long fingers and strokes down to her palm. He repeats the motions as many times as he needs until he feels her arm relax, her hand grow warm and loose in his, and only then does he start massaging the cream into her weeping, open wound.

* * *

Beckett's careful in the stairs as she follows Castle down to the kitchen. She keeps her hand on the railing and her steps measured, and she can't help thinking about the physical program she needs to establish for herself. Yoga would be good, for sure, working on both her muscles and her ability to compartmentalize, and then pull-ups, push-ups, the usual. Maybe an hour of running a day, if she can manage it?

The sound of Castle's ringtone distracts her from her thoughts, and she raises her head in time to see it frown at the phone, silence it and put it back in his pocket.

"Who was that?" she says. The song sounded familiar, but she can't place it.

"Nothing important," he answers, but his smile is wrong and he won't meet her eyes. Kate presses her mouth together and leans against the kitchen counter, watches him move around to get cups, chocolate, milk and marshmallows.

The idea of something so rich as hot chocolate with marshmallows on top makes her stomach a little queasy, but there's a part of her that wants to clap her hands, maybe even giggle at the prospect. The world can't be as terrible a place as it seemed from her basement if delicious things like hot chocolate still exist in it.

She's noticed before how comfortable Castle was in his kitchen, but she's not sure that until today she was really aware how much making food - or in this case, drinks - unwinds him. By the time he sets the steaming cup in front of her, his shoulders have loosened, his face eased; he's even got that adorable glimmer in his blue eyes, the little kid one.

Her heart clenches to see it again. "Milady," he says with a wriggle of his eyebrows, and a smile stretches her lips.

"Thanks," she says, reaching to curl her fingers around the handle. For a second she considers sitting on the couch - that's how hot chocolate should be drunk really, nestled into a comfortable armchair - but the memories immediately crowd at her eyelids, her own seductive words now jumbled with Tyson's _I'm helping you, Kate_, and her body tenses up against the counter.

No couch, then.

Castle comes around the kitchen island to sit next to her. He takes a deep breath as he perches on the next stool, flashes her a confused look. "You smell like Alexis."

"Yeah. I used her shampoo. Too weird?" she asks, tilting her head.

"Heh. Maybe a little. Ooh, I should go buy you some of that cherry stuff," he says, his eyes turning a little dreamy at the thought. "Mmm. It was the best."

Kate smiles to herself, remembering one particular night when... Um. Yeah. He does _love_ the cherry stuff. But then her chest twists with anxiety when she thinks of the expectations he might have, of all the ways she could disappoint him, and to push the fear away she lifts her cup and blows gently on the surface. When she thinks it's safe, she takes a sip: the rich taste of dark chocolate envelops her tongue, the kick of the marshmallows lovely against her palate, and her brain is wiped clean.

"Castle. This is amazing_._" Eyes closed, she drinks a little more, feels again the wonderful explosion of flavor against her taste buds. Oh, oh, heaven.

"I'd have made you some the moment we came home, if I'd known that'd be your reaction," he says, his voice lilting with amusement but some roughness to it, too, an edge that could be either arousal or sorrow.

She doesn't want to find out, so she keeps her eyelids tightly shut, cradles the cup between her palms. His comment about the shampoo has reminded her, though- "Hey, I forgot to ask - where's all my stuff? You said my apartment was leased to somebody else, right?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Kate opens her eyes at last, and the look on his face makes her stomach drop. "Ah, storage," he says, the word raw like he's had to scrape it out of his throat. "We, um. We put it in storage."

And that's - a bad thing? "Had me a little scared there for a second, Rick," she jokes, hoping to tease the tightness out of his eyes. "I thought maybe you'd thrown it all away."

"Never," he murmurs, and she sees now. That's the problem, isn't it? He could never let go of her. It should make her happy - it should thrill her to no end that even if he tried to move on, tried to be with Kyra, he still came running to her the minute he knew where she was - but she's not sure she can ever be okay with the idea of having such power over him, the knowledge that _she_ can make him look so utterly devastated.

"I'm okay," he assures her with a ghost of a smile, probably clued in to her thoughts by her long silence. "Don't worry about me, Beckett. We can go there tomorrow if you want. Sort out the stuff you might need right now."

She nods slowly and takes a sip of hot chocolate, but the sharp pleasure of the first taste is gone. Now the sweetness is too much, and she has to force the liquid down her throat. "What about-" she starts, but Castle speaks at the same time.

"I called Dr. Burke," he says, and his blue eyes turn to her hesitantly, like he's waiting for her forgiveness. "Earlier, when you were out on the roof."

He called Dr. Burke. "Oh."

"I didn't make an appointment or anything," he continues breathlessly, apparently terrified of her reaction. "I mean, he did say that he could see you tonight after hours if you wanted, but I didn't want to assume - I was just asking him for advice, really."

"Okay," she says, knitting her brow. Advice?

"It's just - I've seen you flinch every time you come into the kitchen, Kate, and I've noticed the way you avoid looking at the couch, and - you couldn't walk into the bedroom today, not even to get your mother's ring."

"Well, maybe you could give me a little time here," she says defensively, sitting straighter. "Jeez, Castle, it's only been one day, and not even a full one. You can't just expect-"

"No, no, that's not what I meant," he says, lifting a pacifying hand. "My point is - we don't have to stay here, Kate."

She stares at him in confusion. "What?"

"We don't have to stay here," he repeats, that same excitement in his voice as when he had a particularly good theory to share with her. "You have all those terrible memories tied to the loft now, and I gotta say, knowing about - everything - I'll never be able to look at my own bed the same. So why would we put ourselves through this? I asked Dr. Burke, and he agreed that during the healing process it's best not to be constantly confronted with reminders of-"

"Okay, okay," she interrupts, shivering at his words, at the reality she's trying so hard to forget. "I get it. But, Rick." She meets his eyes, uncertain. "Where would we go? The loft is your home." And it's hers too, a little bit.

He shrugs. "Is it? I've been living here on my own for the past eight months, Kate. Alexis is in Paris, my mother moved out. Yeah, okay, I've got memories here. But memories won't keep me warm at night. Memories won't talk back or laugh when I make a joke." He pauses, looks like he's weighing his words. "I just want to be where you are. Wherever that is, Beckett."

Ah. Ever the writer, huh?

Her cheeks burn, but she doesn't avert her eyes. "You haven't answered my question," she says, the corner of her mouth lifting. "If you've thought all this through so carefully, I'm sure you have a few suggestions as to _where._"

Castle looks equal parts thrilled that she's not saying no, and nervous to share his ideas. "Okay, so Dr. Burke did say it was better if it was not a completely foreign place, because then your brain doesn't have to adjust to a new environment, and it's - huh. I've forgotten the rest."

He sounds so adorably upset that Kate presses her fingertips to her mouth, can't contain her smile. "So somewhere familiar," she nudges.

"Right." A tentative glance at her. "I thought, ah - the Hamptons?"

Oh. She was expecting him to bring up her dad's cabin (which, of course, would be a problem seeing as her dad currently lives there and she doesn't want to see him yet). But. The Hamptons.

They did have a good time there. The house is huge, and somewhat intimidating, but she enjoyed cooking in the kitchen, and the view-

The view. The unending stretch of ocean, the long walks on the beach, the fresh bite of salt in the air. Yearning makes a brutal fist in her chest and leaves her breathless.

A strangled sound from Castle brings her back to the present. "Kate-" he looks at her, his face white, pleading. What- "Tell me he didn't - there were no bugs in the Hamptons house, were there?"

Oh, God. She immediately reaches for his hand over the counter and squeezes, shakes her head decidedly. "No, Castle, no. He didn't go that far."

Air wheezes out his chest in relief, and he closes his eyes briefly, twines his fingers with hers. She's tempted to say yes. She's very tempted to say yes, but there are a few things that she needs to make sure of first.

"You have neighbors all year round, right?" she asks. "I mean, people do actually live there. It's not going to be empty and desolate for all of the winter." As much as she likes her quiet, Kate doesn't think she can take any more isolation after those two years of _nothing_.

She wishes Castle were a little less smart, though. She wishes he didn't know exactly what her question means the moment she asks it. But there's nothing for it - nothing for the clench of his jaw, tightness around his eyes when he answers, "Yeah, there are people. All year round. Not a lot of them, but I do have neighbors, and the town is rather lively even in winter."

She almost doesn't ask her next question. Almost. "Did you take Kyra?"

He opens his mouth; pain ripples across his face. It takes him a moment to answer. "No," he rasps. "No, I didn't."

Relief swirls through her, makes her dizzy. It's ridiculous, she tells herself. It shouldn't matter.

It does matter.

"Okay," she says slowly, squeezing his hand. "Let's try the Hamptons, Rick." He squeezes back, smiling at her, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

As afternoon slowly morphs into evening, Kate grows restless again. After the hot chocolate she went back upstairs to do the routine the doctor gave her for her shoulders, and then she was so worn out she had to lie down and take a nap.

She woke in a panic, drenched in sweat, ghost fingers clawing at her throat.

The good thing is that she didn't scream and alert Castle, so he's still downstairs, oblivious, doing whatever he's been doing (writing? She keeps forgetting to ask about Nikki Heat). But now that Kate's showered and changed clothes again, all she wants to do is go outside.

Escape.

She spins around and has to catch herself to the door for balance -_ too fast, Kate_ -, grits her teeth around a curse. The nap did boost her energy levels, but not enough that she can go skipping down the stairs. And if Castle sees her like this he'll never say yes to her suggestion of a walk. He was unhappy enough when she didn't want to take Dr. Burke's offer.

It's just - if they're going to the Hamptons, and she's going to see someone there (someone Burke actually recommended) then it doesn't make sense for her to have a session tonight. There's no freaking way she's going to tell this story twice.

Taking a deep breath, Kate propels herself off the wall and makes her sedate way to the stairs, takes the steps one by one. It's infuriating, especially for her, but the thought of fresh air and nighttime in New York City is enough of a reward to keep her in check.

"Castle?" she calls when she doesn't find him in the kitchen.

Her only answer is a loud noise coming from his bedroom, followed by a few interesting swearwords. Beckett knits her brow in concern, takes a few steps forward - and stops. The open shelves. She and Castle had a lovely, _lovely_ time using those shelves in ways the designers had certainly not planned for, but it's ruined now by the sick, fascinated look on Tyson's face as he played her the tape. It's almost as if he was in the room with them, watching.

"Castle," she calls again, her voice rough with frustration. She wants to go in there; she wants to make sure he's okay, but her feet won't move.

"Yeah, yeah," he answers at last. He comes out of his room rubbing his head with one hand, triumphantly holding up something black and tiny in the other. "I got it, Beckett!"

She peers at his fingers, reaches out when she can't determine what on earth he's talking about. What is-

"I found the bug under my bed," he says, something proud and accomplished in his voice. Kate can only stare, her gut churning. "Took me a while to dislodge it, but the hero prevailed in the end." He looks at her, waiting for congratulations maybe, or at least a smile, and he realizes after a handful of seconds that neither is happening. "Kate?"

Breathe. She has to breathe. "Let's get out of here," she says. She meant to say it lightly, tease him into agreeing, but instead it's a quiet kind of despair infusing her words.

Rick drops the hand holding the bug and stares at her. "We said we'd leave tomorrow morning."

Right, the Hamptons. "I know," she says, has to swallow to push the next words out. "I just mean - let's go for a walk. Okay? Just - I need fresh air."

"Oh." His eyes dart from her to the window, the deep night sky, and back. "It's gonna be pretty cold outside, Kate." She says nothing, just stares at him. He surrenders quickly enough. "All right, okay. Um - you don't have a coat, do you? Just that flimsy little jacket I bought you yesterday-"

"Just give me one of yours, Castle," she sighs.

He nods and disappears back into the bedroom. Kate averts her eyes, tries to run a hand through her hair - but she's tied it into a solid knot at the back of her neck.

Shoes. She'll need shoes. She doubts Castle's kept any of her heels, and even if he has she probably wouldn't be able to walk on them right now. She'll just have to go with the flats he bought in DC.

She finds them by the door, slips her feet inside. He's right. She's going to freeze.

She doesn't care.

"I think that's the smallest coat I have," he says, coming back into the living room. He's holding up a dark grey one that looks like wool, and thrown over his other arm is a thick jacket that she remembers seeing on him. She loves that jacket.

"Thanks," she says, taking the coat and sliding it on. It's way too large, of course, but there's something comforting about being able to wrap it snug around her body, adjusting the collar around her neck. She catches a whiff of his scent and almost smiles until she realizes that there's something else tangled with it, a flowery fragrance that can only be a woman's perfume.

"Does it fit okay?" he asks, not looking at her, fumbling for his phone and keys and wallet.

Kate breathes in. Breathes out. He wouldn't give her a coat that Kyra'd used. He wouldn't. Maybe the garment just hung next to Kyra's clothes for too long. The thought doesn't really help with the sharp ache in her chest, but she has to focus on her objective here. A walk, fresh air. She wants it. "Yeah, fine," she says.

But when they walk out of the loft she pretends not to see his outstretched hand.

* * *

Castle watches her burrow her hands deeper into the coat's pockets, the way she ducks her head with every gust of wind. His first instinct is always to reach out, tuck her into his side, protect her from the cold - but it's obvious that tonight she doesn't want that. She walks a step ahead of him, lost in a world of her own, and he can only stare and wince every time a car honks and her body flinches.

They walk two blocks like this, the knot in Castle's chest ever tightening as he watches Kate struggle with the city sounds, and then she stops abruptly, rests her back to the nearest shop window. A bank, some part of him notices even when his eyes sweep anxiously over Beckett's slim form, try to figure out what's wrong.

"Just give me a minute," she says, closing her eyes and tilting her head back. Her scarf is coming loose, but the bruises around her neck are less striking in the city lights. Only the purple ones stand out, like some kind of artistic tattoo.

His own comparison disgusts him.

Kate lets out a long exhale and he glances up at her face. She looks more relaxed than he'd expect after watching her shiver and startle for twenty minutes; he studies her more closely, realizes she seems to be timing her breaths. A technique she learned with Dr. Burke, maybe? Curious to experience whatever she's doing, Rick closes his eyes and listens.

There's the screech of tires from cars going too fast; the muffled sounds of people talking into their phones; the click of heels against the sidewalk; the steady thump of a bass line somewhere; the occasional blare of a horn. He's used to it - it takes him an effort to even notice the soft cooing of pigeons overhead - but he can imagine that for her, who's heard nothing but silence and things he doesn't want to think about for the past two years, it must be overwhelming.

He opens his eyes again and looks at her, wonders if she's closing her mind to the noise and then slowly letting in again - one by one, layering the bass line over the pigeons, the hum of engines over the bass line, the high heels over the engines. Whatever it is, it seems to work, because the next time a driver honks close to them Kate doesn't jerk. She just smiles, her lashes slowly separating, and there's such relief in her eyes that he forgets to breathe. "I can do it," she murmurs, sounding so stunned, so_ happy._ "I can do it, Castle."

He's not sure what she means, but he's never doubted that Kate Beckett can do anything she sets her mind to. "Of course you can," he rasps, and she literally _beams_ at him. He doesn't know where to look. She makes a sound, a breathless laugh, he realizes dazedly, and then she steps in close, their coats touching as she rests her forehead to the side of his neck.

He lifts a careful, careful hand, and curls his fingers around her elbow to keep her there.

* * *

He makes them lasagna for dinner.

Kate's cheeks and nose were red from the cold when they came home, and he's somehow managed to talk her into warming up in the shower. He felt pretty chilled himself; Beckett is so thin the wind must've sawed through her very bones.

Hence the lasagna. It'll make her warm if all else fails, and he wants to get as many calories into her as he can.

He's layering pasta over the meat preparation when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He sighs and ignores it, finishes what he's doing first. Once cheese has been grated on top of the final layer and he's closed the oven door over the lasagna, he washes his hands and digs his iPhone out of his pocket.

He expects it to be Lanie - she's been trying to call him all afternoon - but instead it's Esposito's name flashing at him on the screen.

Rick considers for a second, checks the time. A little after seven. The guys will be at the precinct if they have a case, checking phone records and finances, knocking down alibis, and Castle feels a pang of longing at the thought. What he wouldn't give for things to be normal again, he and Kate at her desk working together to uncover the truth.

But it's a silly wish. He can't turn back time, can't undo Tyson's work.

He's got no idea if Kate even wants to be a detective again.

The phone buzzes in his hands and he nearly drops it, then thinks - _get it over with. _Esposito knows what trauma is; he'll understand. He'll be mad at first, but he'll understand.

"Castle," he answers.

"Richard Castle," Lanie's expressive voice snaps on the other end. Shit. "You're not taking my calls, but you'll pick up for Javier?"

He so can't do this right now.

"Never mind that," she goes on, and he can picture very clearly the flash of her dark eyes. "What the hell are you doing? We had to learn through _Victoria Gates_ that not only Kate was alive, but you were with her in DC? And you couldn't be bothered to _call_?" He squeezes his eyes shut. It's not_ like that_. "What is this, Castle, your attempt at punishing us? Because you were right and we were wrong, and we didn't believe you? I gotta say, I didn't think you were the kind to hold a grudge. To keep something like that to yourself-"

"Lanie."

"She's our friend too, Castle! Or have you forgotten that? Are we all traitors now because we didn't buy your crazy theories about getaway cars and choppers and escapes to foreign countries?"

_Not so crazy,_ he almost says, but that wouldn't help things at all, and now Lanie's voice has moved to hurt rather than angry. It makes him sincerely regret that he didn't take the time to call the 12th. "I'm sorry, Lanie. I wasn't - I swear I wasn't keeping it to myself or trying to punish you. I just...Jordan called me at two this morning and I couldn't believe it. I needed to see it for myself. To see her first, before I could do anything at all."

He's wandered into his bedroom while talking, and he pauses in front of his closet, tries to remember. Right. Packing; he needs to start packing.

"You could've called then," Lanie observes, but her tone has lost most of its sharpness.

"Ah, by the time they let me see her-" his mind stumbles on the memory, and he has to resist the urge to run upstairs and make sure she's really here. "Jordan had already called the 12th, and I just... We hadn't talked in so long. I had no idea what to even say." He grabs a travel bag from the top shelf, needing the distraction, and throws a pile of shirts in there.

"Could've started with, _Hi, I'm in DC, and guess what? Kate's alive_," the ME answers sarcastically, but he can practically hear her soften, the frown easing off her face.

Lanie was devastated by Kate's disappearance, he remembers with a twinge of remorse. Then again, weren't they all? "I'm sorry," he repeats, running his fingers through his hair. "I wasn't thinking straight - wasn't thinking at all - and I should have called you." She makes a soft sound of acknowledgment, and he tilts his head, takes out a few shirts out of the bag when he recalls how full his Hamptons closet already is.

"I'm sorry too," Lanie murmurs after a long pause. He wonders if he's heard that right. "I - we all owe you an apology, Castle. God, I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now, but if it helps - I probably feel worse." Yeah, no. Doesn't help.

"I'm just trying to focus on Kate," he says honestly. "Be what she needs."

There's another silence, the weight of things unsaid. "How is she holding up?" Lanie asks at last.

He hesitates, grabs his favorite jeans. "I'm not sure. Always so hard to tell with her, you know? Physically, she's very weak, but nothing she can't heal from." The purple, finger-shaped bruises on her thighs he caught a glimpse of this morning flash before his eyelids. He swallows, pushes the vision away. "She's holding on," he murmurs, his heart breaking when he thinks of it.

"Sheer will, huh?" Lanie says darkly, and he almost smiles at that, the shared knowledge between them. Kate Beckett and her indomitable spirit.

"You know it."

"And - mentally?" It's obvious from the ME's tone that she does _not_ want to be asking that question.

"She doesn't want to see anyone yet," he answers, skirting the topic as much as he can. "She's - shaken, Lanie. She jumps every time someone touches her, and I've never seen her so-" He can't quite find the word for it. She's not _broken, _no, but...

So close.

"Can I talk to her?" Lanie asks tentatively, and he's a little surprised, given the start of their conversation, that she's not downright demanding it.

"I'll ask," he says, and he turns away from his clothes, goes back into the living-room.

He jogs up the stairs - it takes some of his breath away, which is a clear sign that he needs to start exercising again - and knocks at her door.

"Come in," Kate's voice invites, and he slips into the guest bedroom.

She's in bed, curled under the covers, although she sits up the moment she sees him. "It was warmer in here," she explains, a near blush on her cheeks. Like she needs to justify herself to him.

He attempts a smile, knows by the feel of it that it's not quite right. She looks so small, so vulnerable, her eyes too wide in her pale face.

"Who's that on the phone?" she asks, nodding at him.

Oh. He almost forgot. "It's, ah, it's Lanie. She'd like to talk to you."

A curtain falls over Beckett's face, all the softness gone in a moment. "No."

He takes his hand off the receiver to relay her answer, but hesitates. He doesn't really owe Lanie anything, not after the way she and the boys treated him when he was doing all he could to find Kate. But he sure wouldn't like to be in the ME's shoes right now. He's the lucky one here - the one who gets to see Kate and feed off her reality. "She thought you were dead, Kate," he points out gently. "And you're her best friend."

Beckett shoots him an exhausted, angry look, and he's about to speak again - to say what, he has no idea - when she suddenly holds out her hand. "Give it," she rasps when he dithers, and he gives her the phone, holds his breath.

"Hey, Lanie," she murmurs, pressing the iphone to her ear.

He should leave, give her some privacy. Some part of him is vaguely aware of this, but his feet are rooted to the spot. He can't hear anything that Lanie's saying, but he _can_ see the tears that slowly fill Kate's eyes.

Oh, oh, bad idea. Why does he always make the wrong choices?

"Me too," Kate husks, her hand flying to her eyes, hiding from him. "I missed you too." Another pause, and then, "No, please - Lanie. Don't. Come on, you're gonna make me cry." She huffs a trembling laugh and Castle fists his hands, wants to touch her so badly. "I know. I just... I'm not in the best place right now. I'm taking baby steps, okay?" Lanie must say something sweet, or something funny, because a smile breaks out like sunlight over Kate's face. "Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I look forward to it," she answers, and although her voice is the perfect blend of hesitant and excited, he can see something breaking in her eyes.

She ends the call and he stands there like an idiot, watching as she stares at the bedspread, gathers herself. "Castle?" It's a mere whisper, but she casts a quick look to him, so brittle, and he sinks to his knees in front of her.

"Yeah?"

"Could you give me a hug," she says, like she doesn't have the strength to make it a question. "Just. Hold me really tight for a minute."

He blinks fast to keep the tears at bay, and he reaches out for her, carefully wrapping himself around her. Her arms bracket his waist and he feels the soft puff of her breath as she gives in, collapses into him. He squeezes her - _tight_, she said - and the tension slowly leaks out of her, her forehead sinking into his shoulder.

"Good," she murmurs, almost to herself. "That's good." But he can still feel a warm dampness slowly soak the fabric of his shirt.


	13. Chapter 13

She wakes to darkness and her heart thrashing against her ribs, doesn't know where she is, what's going on. The vivid dream clings to her skin, her abdomen hot and sticky with a blood that _feels_ real, and Kate presses both hands to her stomach, is surprised to find it dry and whole under her t-shirt.

"Kate?"

She recoils at the voice, brings her knees up, her forearms held to her chest for protection. Some part of her brain notices the inconsistencies, the fact that her hands and feet are free, the so-soft bed and the comforter wrapped snugly around her body, but she just can't-

The light comes on, a gentle light that doesn't hurt her eyes like the naked light bulb in her cell did, and Kate drags a painful breath down her throat. The loft. The guest bedroom at the loft. She's safe.

She grits her teeth and tries to relax, to ignore the concerned, grieving look in Castle's eyes. He reaches out to her but she shakes her head sharply, can't take his hand on her right now. She'll be okay. She will. Just - in a moment.

"Is there anything I can do?" he murmurs, and if she were a little less exhausted, a little more herself, she might try to do something about the brokenness in his voice.

As it, she can only rasp, "No," and concentrate on her own breathing.

* * *

The next morning, Beckett stands at the door of storage space 171 with dark circles under her eyes. She watches Castle open it, wincing at the creak of rusty metal, and then she takes a few steps inside.

So that's it, huh. All that would've been left of her had she died at Tyson's hands.

The storage space is pretty full. Wherever she turns to she catches glimpses of familiar things, the red velvet armchair that she kept in her bedroom, the bookshelf from her office. Mostly it's boxes, though, boxes and boxes of stuff labelled, some in Castle's handwriting, some in her father's.

It's hard not to think of the Gemini doll case, with those two kids - how old were they, twenty, twenty-two? - who died trying to get justice for their parents' murder. And all that was left of them was a storage space's worth of junk, too, that Castle ended up giving away.

"I thought my mother's case would be the one to get me killed," she observes, struck by the irony of it. "That's what I was afraid of at the time. That I would run to my death and I wouldn't be able to convince to stay back."

She's not sure he's breathing at all, but she can't afford to look at him and check.

"I was never really scared of Tyson," she says, chuckling darkly. How little she knew. "I hated him for what he did to you, the way he made you feel responsible for whoever he would kill next after he escaped that motel. I hated that he made me arrest you. But I wasn't - scared."

Not until after the bridge.

"Kate." Castle's voice is a thin thread of agony.

"It's funny, isn't it, how life never turns out the way you expect it to be." All the stupid things that she used to worry about - that Castle wasn't serious about them, that she was spending too much time at his place, that Alexis seemed to suddenly hate her. And then Tyson took her and none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was to make it to the next day. Survival - man's most basic instinct.

Her eyes fall on the nearest box. _Shoes, _it reads. Shoes. How mundane.

"I'm sorry," Castle murmurs at her back, and something in the words make her turn around. Ah, shit. There's a tear trailing down his cheek. "I'm so sorry, Kate."

She shakes her head. "Don't be silly, Castle. It's not your fault."

"Maybe not. But I could've kept looking for you; I could've said no to Kyra, instead of giving Tyson material to torture you with." There's so much regret and self-loathing in his voice that Kate finds herself stepping forward, catching her chin between two fingers. Probably a little harder than she needs to.

"Don't do you dare blame yourself," she says, gritting her teeth. "Tyson is the only one responsible for this. Sure, okay, if I'm being honest - I'm not happy that you went back to Kyra. And yeah, maybe I'm hurt, maybe I'm a little jealous. But, Rick - _I'm not mad at you._ I know how hard it must've been. The hell you must've gone through. I lost my mother; you think I don't remember? Do you think I believe there was anything about those two years that was easy for you? Because trust me - I really don't."

His façade holds for a moment, all bravado and stiffness, but he could never resist her; she sees the cracks appear, widen under her touch until he's nothing but a little boy, terrified and broken.

"It was pretty bad," he breathes out, and she opens her arms to him, cradles him to her chest, carding a hand through his hair as he holds her close. It kills her to see him like this, so undone, hating himself because he tried to move on.

It kills her that Tyson got exactly what he wanted.

"I love you," she breathes against his temple, because it's true, was always true. It will never not be true.

After a moment he draws a shaky inhale and steps back, gestures around. "I hate those boxes," he says vehemently. "I hated packing them. It felt so wrong, like I was giving up hope, giving up on you."

She sighs. "I'll just grab a couple of them and we can be on your way. I'm not a huge fan of this place either.

He looks at her with a question in his eyes.

"It's just depressing," she says, trying to make light of it. "Seeing how my life fits in a bunch of boxes. Doesn't exactly make a girl feel special."

Castle stares at her, indignant, and it's his turn to step in closer. "You think this place is you, Kate?" He lifts his arm to encompass the room in a sloppy movement. "You think any of this is you? You couldn't be farther from the truth. None of this has any meaning without you here. Who you are, your spirit, your stubbornness, your intelligence, your heart - it can't be contained, not in a collection of lifeless things, not in a storage space."

His words. His beautiful, beautiful words. She's missed them.

He pulls her against him, his mouth glancing off her temple, and he murmurs, "You don't fit in a box, Beckett. You never did. Why do you think I wanted to write a book about you in the first place?"

Her only answer is to carefully wind her arms around his waist, and to press her smile into the side of his neck.

* * *

When they come back to the car he offers her the keys out of habit, dangles them from his finger before his brain is even conscious of what he's doing.

Kate stares at his hand with a heartbreaking expression on her face, half burning want and half panicked hesitation, and he suddenly realizes his mistake.

"Sorry," he says, lowering his hand just when she reaches for it. Her fingers tangle with his and he sees her throat work as she swallows, the way her eyes linger over their joined hands, hungry, fascinated.

Shit, what has he done? He's freaking stupid. He should've just headed to the driver's seat; he shouldn't be putting more pressure on her than she can handle.

But she looks so...desperate.

"Let me try," she pleads, a rasp of her voice that does nothing to reassure him.

Yup. A fucking idiot.

"Kate. Look. It doesn't seem like the best-"

The words die on his tongue when she lifts her eyes to him. The look she gives him is devastating, yearning and supplicant and commanding all at once. "I can do it, Castle."

He remembers last night, their walk in the city. She _can _do it, he thinks; despite everything she's still Kate Beckett, the woman who chases down criminals in high heels, who navigates New York City like it's her own personal kingdom.

And she needs him to believe.

"Okay," he gives in, anxiety twisting in his chest as he loosens his fingers, lets her have the keys. "But you try in the garage, Beckett. You go slow and be careful, and if you don't feel comfortable-"

She's already bypassing him and going for the driver's door, sinking into the seat, so he follows with a sigh, wishing he could go back in time and not act like a moron.

But when he sits down, she has the key in the ignition already, and her seatbelt fastened. Her face is clear and focused, her hand on the gearshift, and hope rises in his throat.

"Buckle up, kitten," she tells him with a quick glance, a quirk of her mouth, and he hastens to obey, his silly heart lifting because she remembers elementary security rules. She turns on the ignition, and the car roars gently, as if warming up to her touch.

Because he's looking at her face, he sees the flutter of her eyelids, the pleasure that parts her mouth, ripples in her eyes as her hand skims over the wheel. It's beautiful and intimate and completely erotic, the way she breathes slow and deep, the slide of her fingers over the gear stick.

He swallows hard, his hands curling over his jeans, and then suddenly they're moving, the car on reverse and gliding out of the parking spot, Kate's eyes intent on the side mirror as she maneuvers. The underground garage is mostly empty anyway, but still she's careful, her gestures smooth and measured, and his nervousness starts to fade.

She really can do this.

* * *

Everything is fine for a while. They've left the city behind, are now cruising along the interstate. It's a Wednesday morning and the road is clear, although there are a lot more cars headed in the opposite direction.

Castle's plugged in his iPod and he's got soft, jazzy music playing, his fingers tapping the rhythm on the armrest. His eyes keep closing, the warm embrace of sleep so tempting. He doesn't immediately notice.

But at some point he slits an eye open, intending to check on how far they've gotten, the scenery's streaming past his window entirely too fast. He sits up, brutally awake, his heart tap-dancing in his chest.

"Kate?"

Shit, how fast are they going?

He looks over at her. It doesn't look like she's heard him. Her profile is pale and set against the winter sky, her eyes wide, too dark.

"Kate," he says louder, gripping the door handle when they pass an SUV at an incredibly scary pace. Her hands are tense on the wheel as she stares ahead, thin skin stretched over the bones. "Kate, slow down."

He rubs a hand down his face, chasing the last remnants of sleep, and he reaches to turn off the music. She still hasn't acknowledged him at all.

There's a car ahead of them and they're approaching it so fast the driver actually flashes his lights at them; Beckett swerves to the left and overtakes, gaining even more speed as she does.

Enough. That's enough. He waits until they're far enough to be safe, and then he reaches for the wheel, sharply veering to the right. He feels Kate jerk against him, and then she hisses, "Castle, what the hell-"

"I told you to slow down," he grouses, anger building when her hands fight his for control. Seriously, Beckett?

"I'm fine - I'm handling this-"

"The hell you are. You need to _pull over_-"

"Castle-"

"Beckett, do you have any idea of the _speed_ you're driving at?"

Her breathing hitches and her grip loosens, awareness slowly replacing that haunted look in her eyes. She eases her foot over the accelerator, allowing the car to lose some of its momentum, and he shifts down to fifth gear, then fourth, then third, his left hand awkward on the stick.

"Stop on the side of the road," he says, and at last she obeys him, brings them to a smooth stop near a cluster of trees.

Her hands are trembling.

He tilts his head against the back of the seat, the blood still pounding in his chest, and closes his eyes for a moment. They're safe, safe, safe; everything is fine, he tells himself, over and over again.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out, the murmur barely audible at all.

He turns his eyes to her. She's not looking at him; she has her hands curled on the wheel, her shoulders hunched, the curtain of her hair hiding most of her face.

Is she crying?

"What the hell was that?" he asks, proud that he manages to keep his voice civilized.

"I didn't realize," she breathes, but he knows there's something else going on, something that makes her voice thin and raw. She's got to talk to him, for god's sake.

"Kate, you can't convince me to let you drive and then-"

Suddenly she's moving, unbuckling her seat belt, opening the door, sliding out into the cold. He stares after her, shocked and indignant, opens his own door to see her stride over the guard rail, vanish into the trees.

"Beckett!" he yells, furious again, blood rising in his veins. "Come back here!"

Jesus. Does she think she can disappear on him? Swearing under his breath, he unfastens his seat belt and grabs his coat, slams the door shut behind him.

The winter air is a slap in his face. He pauses, breathless with it, all of it, and he sinks back against the car, pressing a hand over his eyes. His chest deflates.

Okay. Okay.

He needs to calm down.

She walked out on him; she didn't ask for help, didn't ask to be followed, and he used to be good at this. Giving her space, letting her work out her own issues and then come back to him.

Yeah.

He needs to buy her a cell phone stat, though, otherwise he's going to have a heart attack by the end of the week. But this is Kate Beckett, he reminds himself, and she does not need his help to fight off big bad wolves, assuming there are any in these woods. She can take care of herself.

E_ven if she just spent two years as Jerry Tyson's prisoner?_ his subconscious murmurs, the vile, merciless thing.

Castle groans and buries his hands into his pockets, tells his feet not to move.

She'll come back to him.

* * *

She doesn't go far. She's barely past the first line of trees when she has to go down on one knee, put a hand to the ground; her stomach heaves violently and her breakfast comes right out.

_The lovely French toast Castle made_, some part of her mourns as she shifts shakily, pushes her hair back and drops onto her ass.

It's freezing, of course, the thin material of her pants not enough to guard her from the cold rising from the earth, but she doesn't mind so much. Her body burns, hot tears spilling onto her cheeks, and her shivering only seems an appropriate counterpoint to that.

Oh god.

Oh god, she could've killed them both.

What is wrong with her?

Castle's right. She wasn't paying attention to the speed; she wasn't thinking at all. She was just responding to the call of the open road, the sense of freedom singing in her veins, the need to... get away.

Get as far as she can from Jerry Tyson.

She presses a hand to her mouth and closes her eyes, gives herself one minute. _A whole minute of crying, Kate_, and then she will rein it in and be composed again - she will go comfort Castle and his worried eyes.

She just needs a minute.

* * *

He sees her emerge from the trees and before he knows it he's moving, his body no longer able to resist the pull of her.

She climbs over the guard rail with none of her previous ease, arms and legs shaking a little, and by the time she stands back on her feet he's there with her, hands hanging at his sides, unable to decide the right thing to do.

She solves his problem by stepping into him, circling her arms around his waist and pressing her forehead to his neck. For a second he stands breathless, stunned, before he returns her embrace with a sigh of relief, resting his chin on top of her head. She trembles against him and he's not sure if it's the cold, her tears, but it doesn't matter.

She's there, nestled against him, her body alive and aligned with his.

He can't ask for more.

* * *

The house is warm.

Of course. This is Rick Castle; of course he calls ahead and asks the maintenance guy to turn on the heat.

Kate drops her jacket onto an armchair, looks around with the same reluctant, intimidated feeling as she did the first time. She thought she would get used to it, the fame, the money, but she never quite reached that point, did she?

Doesn't help that she's just spent two years living in a cramped basement. The difference is - brutal, to say the least.

She swallows around the ridiculous sensation, turns her eyes to the large bay window that opens onto the garden, and beyond that, the sea. The sky is a uniform grey, clouds hanging low, but she heard the low murmur of the waves when she stepped out of the car, rhythmical and soothing, and it feels good just knowing it's there.

Beautiful and infinite.

"And here we are," Castle announces, dropping the bags on the floor and closing the door behind him. "Home, sweet home."

Not really his home, and certainly not hers. Still, she smiles at him, grateful for the way he keeps trying.

She feels ready to collapse.

"You wanna go upstairs, pick your room?" he asks, tilting his head with a soft look. "You can take a nap while I make us lunch, if you want."

Pick _her_ room?

"Okay," she says, trying to ignore the fact that she doesn't have a bag, that her stuff is in boxes in the trunk. "Sure. Might as well settle in."

Castle leads the way upstairs, his wide frame masking most of her view, and she watches the sway of his hips, the way he lists a little to compensate the weight of the bag. He's two years older, but it doesn't show - in fact, he seems to have shed weight compared to her memories.

It's not as obvious as it is on her, of course, but his waist is narrower, the line of his jaw sharper than it used to be. And she doesn't think it's because he's been exercising.

He flips on the lights upstairs and walks into the first room on his left, the one that she remembers is the master bedroom. Kate starts following him but then hesitates - maybe she's just supposed to turn right and go for one of the other rooms. It's a spacious house, and if she's right he's got at least five more-

"Kate?" he asks, his head peeking out of the room.

Oh. "Yeah," she says, moving forward, trying not to look as confused as she feels.

"I was thinking you should have the master bed," he says when she walks in. "This is where you slept last time, and Dr. Burke insisted on the importance of a familiar-"

"Castle, that's your room," she interrupts softly, no fight left inside her. Everything in here feels like him, the extravagant painting above the dresser, the warm colors of the bedspread, the glass door that opens onto the most amazing bathroom. She can't-

"It doesn't matter," he assures her, leaning in to grab his bag from the floor. "I can sleep anywhere. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

And just like that, he's turning around, making his way out. She bites her lip. "Castle, wait."

He pauses at the door, glances back at her.

"Did Burke - say anything about the importance of separate rooms?" she asks. She's trying to sound playful but her voice comes out a little needy, a little raw, not what she wanted at all.

Castle gapes at her, his eyes so very blue. "Um. No, actually," he rasps, clears his throat. "No, he didn't say anything. I just...assumed."

Assumed.

That she wouldn't want him in her space?

Beckett rubs a hand down her face, pushes her hair back. "Castle, I-" She what? Maybe he's right after all. She's not safe; he still bears the mark of her last punch, delicate shades of green and purple painting his jaw, and it makes sense that he'd want to put a few walls between them.

"Yes?"

He's dropped his bag again and he's coming back for her, a hand reaching out, wrapping carefully around her elbow. She digs her teeth harder into her bottom lip, can't decide what is the better, the safer choice.

"Please talk to me," Castle murmurs, the deep rumble of his voice so lovely.

She sighs, surrenders. "We could try sleeping in the same bed again? Just tonight. I don't want to hurt you, but I also don't - want to be alone," she confesses in an exhale, seeking his eyes.

He blinks, a little stunned, she thinks, before he gathers his wits. "You think I'm afraid of you?"

She looks at his jaw. "Maybe you should be."

He scoffs, shaking his head, but then a kind of laugh escapes him. "Kate. I know you're not going to hurt me."

She wishes she could be so sure.

He must see the doubt in her eyes because his jaw tightens, his eyes darkening. "I know you won't hurt me," he insists. "I want you to have your own space, because I know it's important to you - but Beckett, if you want me in your bed, you just have to say the words."

That easy, huh?

"The words," she says, suppressing a smile, and she watches the laugh break his face open.


	14. Chapter 14

A soft knock makes Castle look up from the two steaks sizzling happily in the pan. Kate is standing at the kitchen door, her hair falling messily around her face, a book cradled to her chest.

"Hey," he says. The sight of her still makes him breathless. "You get any sleep?"

"Yeah," she answers, rubbing the back of her hand to her forehead as she comes closer. "Some."

"Any dreams?"

She gives a small shake of her head. "No." _Not this time_.

He glances down at the novel she's holding, feels something twist in his chest when he realizes what it is.

_Frozen Heat._

"So, how do you feel about homemade burgers?" he asks with a forced smile, turning back to the stove.

"Sounds great," she answers quietly. He sees her rest a hip to the counter from the corner of his eye, braces himself for the question he knows is coming.

"Castle," she starts slowly. "I just looked in your library, and I was… a little surprised to see that _Frozen Heat _seems to be the last book you got published."

Yup. Here they are.

"Unless you don't keep copies of your own books anymore," she continues. "Which would surprise me, but I guess there might be a really good reason for you to not want a specific novel in your house..."

A specific novel? Castle switches off the burner and turns to Beckett with both eyebrows raised. "What?"

She presses her lips together and finally asks her question, her eyes intent on his. "Did you kill Nikki Heat?"

He opens his mouth and stares. Kill Nikki? He would never - _could _never- "No. _No. _Jeez, Kate. Why on earth would I-"

"You killed Derrick Storm," she says, but he doesn't miss the way her whole body relaxes, her shoulders sagging in relief. "I thought maybe…"

"Kate." He swallows. Time to confess. "The reason there are no new books in my library is that – I haven't written anything since _Frozen Heat._"

Her eyes widen. "What?"

The usual flush of shame climbs up his chest. He shrugs. "I just haven't felt like it, that's all."

"But. Castle. It's been-"

He gives her a defiant look. He's tired of feeling guilty about the whole thing, tired of Gina's exhortations, tired of Nikki's reproachful silence. _The Nikki Heat series to remain unfinished?_ a reporter wrote a couple months back, and the amount of fan mail Castle got after that was even more ridiculous than usual. He threw it all away.

Kate glances down, her fingers tracing the edge of the _Frozen Heat_ cover, and then she looks up at him again. "Not a word?"

He shakes his head. He wishes he could explain, tell her how it felt to sit empty in front of his computer, the way words seemed to have died with her.

He simply couldn't do it. He couldn't write Nikki Heat moving on to her next case while Kate Beckett was-

"I'm sorry," Kate says, and her low, careful tone tells him she read more into his silence than he ever wanted her to.

"No," he says, suddenly needing her to understand. "No, don't be. It wasn't your fault. And it made sense. I think - I just didn't want..."

His voice trails off as he hesitates. Kate tilts her head. "You didn't want-?"

"I didn't want Rook to have Nikki if I couldn't have you," he admits. "Didn't want to be jealous of my own characters." How stupid would that have been?

Beckett stays silent, mulling over his words, maybe. Her fingers keep moving, up and down, up and down, a hypnotic dance over his book that he can't help but be mesmerized by.

"I'd have thought," she says slowly after a moment, "that it would've been a comfort. To have at least that world in your control. To be able to give Nikki and Rook their happy ending."

He remembers the feeling that clenched in his chest whenever he would sit at his desk and try to write, the anger that seethed in his veins, quiet and all consuming. Here was Nikki, gorgeously free, confident and fierce, all things that Beckett had been, all things that Beckett - so he'd been led to believe - would never be again, and Rook trailed after her, hopelessly enamored, utterly unaware of what he had. Of the value, the priceless beauty of that thing between them.

No, Castle would never have killed Nikki Heat - but if he'd been made to write, if he'd been forced to sit at his desk and type away, he might have shot the reporter dead. Just out of spite.

"It wasn't," he finally says, resigned to have the truth leak out of him. "Nothing - nothing was a comfort."

A beat of silence echoes his unwilling admission. Then another. Finally he lifts his eyes to her, can't bear not to know what she thinks, and the look on her face-

She knows.

She knows exactly what he means.

And that's not a comfort either.

* * *

Kate stares through the window and reminds herself to breathe as Castle parallel parks with surprising dexterity next to the therapist's office. She's not sure she wants to know how he managed to get an appointment at such short notice, or what exactly that therapist already knows about her.

Dr. Burke recommended Dr. Simmons. That should be enough for her. It _is _enough - just not to keep her from being nervous.

She's glad she's not seeing Burke though. Poor Dr. Burke. He spent so much energy getting her to open up, helping her understand her feelings; she won't let him see what Jerry Tyson's done with his handiwork.

The day is grey, the blanket of clouds hanging low. Kate can smell rain in the air when she slips out of the car, and her thigh throbs, a dull pain that is more annoying than crippling. She ignores it and follows Castle into the building, the glass door swinging closed when she lets go.

The place manages to walk that fine line between fancy and over-the-top. The elevator is lined with dark wood and a gild-framed mirror, and bright green potted plants are evenly arranged along the corridor that leads to the therapist's office.

They're almost at the door when a sudden thought makes Beckett pause. She can't believe she hasn't had it earlier. How expensive is this Dr. Simmons? And more importantly, where is her money?

"Kate?" Rick's blue eyes are clouded with concern, the bruise on his jaw a little less obvious today.

She opens her mouth to ask - where is her money, how much has he already spent on her - but the weary look on Castle's face stops her. Later; she can do this later. What matters right now is to get through that therapy session. "It's nothing," she says, and she cups her hand lightly around Castle's elbow, moves them both forward.

* * *

Oh.

Dr. Simmons is a woman.

Kate shakes the outstretched hand, taking in the frizzy dark hair, the large blue eyes, the kind smile. Huh. Castle must have known; he must have used _she _at some point in conversation, but Beckett wasn't paying enough attention, or her expectation of a man was too strong for it to really register.

Well.

"Please, take a seat," the psychologist invites, moving toward the comfortable-looking armchair that faces a beige leather couch. Her voice is smooth and very musical, casting a spell that Kate finds hard to resist. Beckett slowly sits on the edge of the couch, her slick palms pressed to her black pants, and waits for Dr. Simmons to say something.

It feels like hours before the woman finally speaks. "So. Miss Beckett."

She tilts her head, her smile still shining softly in her eyes, and Beckett swallows. "You can call me Kate."

The therapist nods. "I'm Emily," she offers back. It should be irritating, that kind of peaceful goodwill she's projecting, but instead of being annoyed Kate only feels-

Intrigued. And drawn, yes, drawn to that woman. Like maybe, in different circumstances, they could be friends.

"Do you want to tell me why you're here today, Kate?"

Oh, jeez. "It's, uh. It's a pretty long story," Beckett warns, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Well. We've got a whole hour to ourselves," Emily said, parting her hands in an encouraging gesture. "Why don't you try and think of a starting point? I find it so much easier to spin a story when I know exactly where to begin."

Right. Kate releases a breath, thinks back to the first time she and Castle were confronted to Jerry Tyson - how little they knew then. She opens her mouth, words painfully forming in her throat, but then she stops. That's not really the beginning, is it?

The real beginning-

"About six years ago," she starts, more determined this time, "I was a Homicide detective working for the NYPD when I came across an… unusual case. The crime scene had been arranged to look like a scene from a book by crime novelist Richard Castle. Do you know him?"

"I can't say I do," Emily says honestly. "But the name is familiar. I think a friend of mine has a few of his books."

"I was...quite a fan at the time. Still am, really. So back then, when I realized the similarities between the crimes and the books – I had to find him and ask him a few questions. He was a real jackass. He didn't seem to care that people were dead; he was just excited to have a copycat killer. But somehow he ended up working the case with us, saying nobody knew his books better than he did." Kate rolls her eyes, but her chest is warm at the memory.

The psychologist hums and leans back into her armchair, crossing her legs, her intelligent eyes not leaving Beckett. "This sounds like a good story."

"The best," Kate murmurs before she can help herself, but she shakes her head against the untimely emotion, focuses on the facts instead. On the timeline.

The timeline always helps.

* * *

He's not sure what he expected, but the Kate Beckett who emerges from Dr. Simmons's office an hour later doesn't seem like a wreck at all. No trace of tears on her cheeks, no tension in her body; in fact, she looks like she's got a little more color than this morning.

Relief kicks hard in his chest, and he jumps up from the waiting room couch. "So?"

She lifts an undecipherable look to him. "Can you come into the office with me? Dr. Simmons wants a word."

He wants to ask why, but instead he just says, "Sure." He follows Kate back in, and a woman rises from an armchair to greet him. Dr. Simmons, he presumes. She looks slightly older than Beckett – and striking, too. Her delicate, even features are offset by the wild, rebellious mass of her hair.

"You must be Richard Castle," she says, extending a hand and a smile to him. Her voice is very soothing, and before he knows it he's shaking her slim, strong fingers, staring at her in something of a daze.

"Yeah," he acknowledges much too late, can almost feel Kate's smirk.

"Kate has told me a lot about you," the psychologist says with a tilt of her head. With anybody else he would expect this line to be heavy with subtext, but not with her.

"Has she," he breathes, glancing at Beckett.

"I have to say, this is a very unusual situation. That man, Jerry Tyson, has had such a deep impact on your relationship with Kate. And I was wondering if the two of you would consider coming to therapy together. I think it might help you both," she says in such a nice way that he doesn't dare speak the immediate _no_ on his mind.

He steals another look at Kate, is surprised at how unmoved by the suggestion she is. Probably not the first time she's heard it, then.

"I, um. I don't know," he answers honestly, caught off-guard. He's never thought much of therapists, never thought he needed one, but if that woman thinks it can help Beckett... "You think my being there would make a difference for Kate?"

"For Kate _and_ for yourself, yes," Dr. Simmons says calmly. "I do believe it would."

"Kate?" he asks, turning to her fully. She shrugs but meets his eyes firmly, her mouth pressed tight in hesitation.

"I don't know, Castle," she says quietly. "There are things that I won't be comfortable discussing in front of you. I know that. But at the same time, I guess...they're also things that you should probably know, so."

So it's a yes, then, isn't it? He can step out whenever she needs him to; he respects her too much not to try and make her life as easy as he can. But - yeah. He _does _want to be there. Anything he can do to help.

"Well, I guess I'm in," he says.

* * *

Castle made another appointment with a physical therapist at the nearest hospital, but it's not for another hour. "I know what we could do while we wait," he says brightly when they step outside. "We could go shopping."

For some reason Kate lets herself be roped into it, and fifteen minutes later they're on the main road, walking into a fancy-looking clothes store.

"Mr. Castle," a saleswoman greets as she pulls the glass door open. "How lovely to see you again."

So he's famous here too.

"Hi," Castle answers with his usual friendly smile, stepping in and reaching for Kate's hand. She stiffens at the unexpected contact, but his fingers are loose and warm, familiar. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name-?"

"Oh, I'm Sally," the woman answers, looking pleased at the question. "It's been a while since the last time you were here, but I saw your daughter last summer. She's so grown-up now," she adds, like she's an old family friend. "And so beautiful."

Beckett glances at Castle, sees the same surprise shimmering in his blue eyes. "Ah, thank you," he says, always the gentleman. Sally is probably in her early forties, her hair a dyed blonde, cut in an elegant little around her face; it's hard to tell if she's only trying to be nice, or actually hitting on Rick.

"Are you looking for something in particular today?" the saleswoman inquires.

"No, we're just going to have a look around," he says. "My friend Kate needs a few changes of clothes, so if there's anything she likes-"

"Oh, of course_._" Sally's pressed her hands together in delight. "Just tell me if you see anything you like, dear, and I'll put it in the fitting room for you."

"Thanks," Beckett says with the closest thing she can get to a smile. The woman's eyes slide over her body in appraisal and Kate fists her hands, forces herself to relax. Sally's probably just calculating her size. _It's fine, fine, fine_, Beckett chants inwardly.

Just then the door of the shop swings open again, and they all turn towards the newcomer. It's a young woman who's not even wearing a coat - she must work here, Kate realizes. Her hair is short and a deep brown, spiking up around her face, and she stares shamelessly at the deep bruises that Beckett just uncovered when she took off her scarf.

Shit.

"Whoa," the young woman says, her green eyes wide. "I don't know what happened to you, but I'm ready to bet it wasn't fun at all."

"Riley." Sally's voice is clipped, a warning, and Castle shuffles closer to Kate.

But really, it's a relief to have someone be open about it, instead of the sideways looks and careful smiles she's been getting. "It's fine," Beckett drops on an exhale, eyeing the girl - Riley? - with a twinge of interest. "You're right. It wasn't fun. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

Riley swallows, the line of her throat working, a flash of sympathy and admiration in her eyes. The sympathy Kate doesn't care for, but the admiration-

It makes her breathless.

"Riley," the older saleswoman calls again, sterner. "A word."

The brown-haired girl seems to understand then that she's in trouble, and she bites on her bottom lip, a blush staining her cheeks. "Sorry," she breathes out, bypassing Beckett and Castle to follow Sally into the back of the shop.

The moment they're out of sight, Castle cuts a worried look to Kate. She exhales slowly. "I'm fine," she says, remembers too late to soften her voice. "Really, Castle. I'm okay."

Wherever they go - it'll be the same, the looks, the whispers, because she's much too thin and she looks like a truck just ran her over. There's no way they can avoid that.

He's going to insist, she can tell, maybe suggest they leave, so she speaks before he can. "They seem to have some really nice stuff here," she says, taking a few steps towards one of the displays. She runs over the fabric of a green dress, finds it softer than it looks. "What do you think, Castle?" she asks, glancing back at him. "Could I pull it off?"

"You could pull off anything," he says, making a visible effort to relax, but his eyes remain that tight, anxious blue.

Beckett swallows and turns her eyes back to the dress, wonders what the hell she's doing. Shopping for clothes and pretending to be normal, pretending-

The dress is beautiful though. The elegant v-neck, the curve of the waist - it would be something to look forward to, even if it was just hanging in the closet until the day it actually fits her.

"I'll try it on," she decides.

* * *

The fitting room is typical of those expensive boutiques: spacious and comfortable, with a soft lighting and a footstool to sit on, but no mirror. While Kate would usually find that infuriating - forcing customers to step outside if they want to to see what they look like, just so the saleswomen can give their unasked-for opinion - today it's a relief.

She's grabbed a bunch of items other than the dress, and she can _feel_ with every shirt, every pair of pants she slips on how unfamiliar her body has become. All sharp angles and protuberant bones. She doesn't need to see it in her reflection.

She finally finds soft, black leggings that she's not swimming in, and a blouse that's a little loose but still feels nice. Smoothing her hand down her thigh, Kate takes a deep breath and steps out.

Castle's sitting on a sofa but he immediately jerks to attention, his eyes soft, sliding over her body like a gentle hand. She exhales slowly, seeing only him, Sally's chatter lost to her - until the woman tries to adjust the fabric over Kate's shoulder.

Beckett can't control any of it. She can't control the way her body freezes, the cold wave of panic that crystallizes into the need to defend herself, the arm that lashes and catches the woman's neck. It's as if somebody else is doing those things, and Beckett only gets to watch and stand there in shock while Sally stumbles back, terror in her eyes, a hand around her gasping throat.

Grey flashes across Kate's vision. Castle has sprung up from his seat and he wraps a hand around the saleswoman's elbow before she can collapse against the wall, gently leads her to a seat.

He's talking quietly, words and sentences that escape Beckett's comprehension. Blood is still pounding in her head, an angry thud that whites out everything else; her body shakes, the burn of adrenaline harsh in her veins.

Oh god.

What has she done?

Shame flares up, hot and relentless, wiping the last of the panic from her heart. Her cheeks are burning.

"Are you okay?"

Beckett sucks in a breath and turns her head towards the voice, the clear green eyes she's seen before. The young woman. Riley. "I'm fine," she answers, but her voice is raw and gruff, doesn't sound like her at all.

Riley is smarter than her colleague: she doesn't try to touch, doesn't try to get closer. She only looks at Kate with a concern that's as sweet as it is out of place.

"I'm - so sorry," Beckett rasps, pushing her hair back. Shit, her fingers are trembling. "I didn't mean to-" Shit. She can't. She can't do this. "I'm sorry," she says again, apologizing to the wrong person, and then she strides to the door, doesn't stop even when Castle calls her name.


	15. Chapter 15

Castle finally makes it out of the shop, excuses on his tongue and a shopping bag in his hand. Sally insisted that she was going to be fine, that she didn't need to go to the hospital, and there was nothing he could do to change her mind. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, looks around.

Beckett's leaning against the car, the long silhouette of her so lonely in the grey afternoon light. It's not very cold yet, but without her coat she must be freezing. Castle bites back a groan, quickens his pace until he finds himself at her side.

She doesn't look at him.

"You forgot your coat," he says, trying to keep his voice neutral as he holds it up for her.

There's a beat of silence, and then she reaches out for it, her hand fisting over the thick material. "Thanks," she murmurs, sounds like she's forcing the word out of her mouth.

She doesn't even glance at the bag he's holding, so he unlocks the car and drops his purchases into the trunk. They should get her some boots too, he thinks, remembering the pale skin of her feet in the flats he bought. Something warm. He packed an old pair of sneakers from Alexis, just in case, but they might not fit.

When he closes the trunk, Beckett has already disappeared into the car, her door slamming shut. He closes his eyes for a moment.

It's so not fair. She's been through so much_. _Lost her mother when she was nineteen, spent thirteen years of her life hunting the person responsible for it, and when she finally found him - fucking _Senator_ William Bracken - she had to strike a deal with the man to protect the people she loves.

And like that's not enough, like she hasn't suffered enough already, she had to get kidnapped by a fucking serial killer and spend nearly two years locked in a basement in a Canadian cabin.

_Deep breaths, Rick._

He buries the thought of Tyson as deep as he can and circles the car as he reaches for the keys, the cool touch of metal focusing his attention. She still doesn't look at him when he settles at the wheel, closes his own door, and he decides to follow her lead for once. She doesn't want to talk? He won't talk.

Up to her.

He starts the car, the engine humming to life, and gets out of their parking space. He checked his iPhone for the best way to get to the hospital, and at the next red light he stops in the right lane, turns his blinker on. It's fairly close - shouldn't take more than ten minutes to get there - so they'll be a little early. But that's okay, he thinks. More time to get used to the place.

"Is she gonna be okay?"

Kate's rasp surprises him, the light turning green at the same second, and he glances over at her, forgets where he is for a moment. Her eyes are deep, her face decidedly facing forward, and he can't tell-

A sharp honk reminds him that he ought to be driving on, so he does that, her words sinking in when he's no longer looking at her. "Yeah. Yeah, she'll be fine," he says, using Sally's own words. "I offered to take her to a doctor, but she said no, that she was more shaken up than hurt. She was fine when I left, Kate."

He chances another glance at her, but her flat profile tells him nothing.

"So she's not pressing charges?"

He sucks in a breath, shakes his head at himself. Of course. Of course that's where Beckett's mind would go. "No," he says, clearing his throat. "No, she's not." It probably has a lot to do with the fact that he's Rick Castle, but he doesn't care.

She doesn't say another word until they've reached the hospital, and by that point he's so concentrated on being good, on respecting her space and suppressing all the questions that burn deep in his chest, that he nearly jumps when he hears her voice again.

"Castle, do you know what happened to my money?"

He stares at her like a moron. Money? "Um - ah - your dad. You should - ask your dad." Great, and he _sounds_ like a moron too. "He's the one handling your accounts. I offered to help, but he said he had an accountant friend and he would be fine." That, and Castle himself was a little bit of a wreck at the time.

Kate nods slowly, doesn't seem thrilled at the prospect of calling her father. "And you've been paying for everything," she says after a beat, surprising him again.

"Ah, yeah. It's just easier this way. You know I've got the money, Kate. It's no big deal." Might not have been the right thing to say, he realizes when he sees the look she gives him, the tight set of her jaw.

"Am I to understand that you're keeping track of all your expenses so that I can pay you back when I can access my money?"

Right. "Well, I was more thinking along the lines of, I haven't seen you in two years and I owe you a couple of birthday and Christmas presents, so, you know..."

"Oh, I see. I'm just supposed to take it all, smile and say _thanks_."

Anger unfolds without warning in his chest. "I'm sorry, Beckett. Obviously I should've left you back in Washington so I wouldn't have to pay for your plane ticket. Oh, and that hospital gown looked so very comfortable - I'm such an idiot for going out and buying you nice clothes."

"Castle."

"No, no, Kate, please - enlighten me. What else have I done wrong? Right, I paid for your therapist. Wow, I'm really evil, aren't I? You've only been back for a few days and already I'm trying to tie you up with all that money I'm spending on you. Because that's the only reason I'd ever pay for all those things, right? It couldn't be because, I don't know, I thought you were dead for two years and I never gave a shit about money to begin with."

She glares at him. He can't help but notice how pale she is. "You done?" she asks sharply.

It'd be nice if that satisfying spark of anger could last a moment longer before it gives way to guilt. Castle looks down at his hands, nods.

"You might not give a shit about money," she says, quiet and obstinate, "but I do. And it doesn't seem like such an unreasonable request to be given at least the option to pay you back, Castle."

But he doesn't want her money. He doesn't _want_ it. How can she not see that?

He hears her door open, and his eyes involuntarily flick up to her. She's frozen with her hand on the handle, her eyebrows knit like she's struggling with something. "It's not - that I'm not grateful," she starts, painfully, and he's not sure he's ever screwed up a conversation as badly as this one.

"Don't, Kate." God, this is so not the point. Like he'd ever-

"I am. I really am. I can't - tell you-"

"Shut up." He didn't mean to snap at her like that, and the startled look in her eyes draws a groan from his lips. "Fine. I - I'll keep a list of the expenses if that's what you want," he surrenders, will say anything to put an end to it. "I promise. And now let's get out of this car before you're late for your appointment."

She opens her mouth, wavers, but she must see something on his face that makes her turn away, and do as he says.

It doesn't exactly make him feel better.

* * *

Kate steps out of the shower and reaches for a towel, the day's fatigue running heavy in her veins. She spoke with two different doctors, had to explain again and again, and then they made her go through a battery of tests - half of which were probably completely irrelevant anyway.

She really hates hospitals.

But at least the physical therapist that she's going to be seeing seems pretty good. His name is Fred, and he doesn't say much, but there was something in his brown, intelligent eyes that made Beckett want to trust him.

She finishes toweling off and glances at the steamed-up mirror. She can see half her face and most of her left shoulder, her wet hair tumbling past, looking darker in the soft light than it actually is.

She and Castle haven't really talked after that debacle of a conversation. They tiptoed carefully around each other on the way back, exchanged small remarks about dinner and the weather and possibly calling her father, but her chest is still - heavy with it. It was stupid of her to bring up the money; she and Castle have never seen eye to eye on that, and it was pretty clear they weren't going to start now.

She's the one who picked a fight. She should be the one to make it better. And she might know how, she thinks as she stares at her slowly-emerging reflection, her too-long hair.

Kate unwraps the plastic protecting her wrists and ankles, slips on underwear, leggings and t-shirt, and then cracks the door open. "Castle?"

She knows him; he'll be hovering close by. It's only been three days, and that's nowhere near enough to balance out the emptiness of two years, the breathtaking need to make sure she's there, that she's still breathing.

She knows the feeling.

It takes him maybe five seconds to come out of the bedroom. "You need anything?" he asks, stepping closer when she opens the door wide. The hot, humid air of the bathroom collides with the cooler hallway, crowds her body for a breath before it evaporates.

"Yeah, actually. I want to cut my hair."

He looks surprised. She suddenly remembers all the times he's played with her hair in bed, the compliments he always made her when she let it down, curled it into artful waves. And yet, no matter how much he might love her long hair, he only says, "Okay. There's this salon that Mother and Alexis both really love - it'll be closed now, but I can call them tomorrow and see if they have-"

He pauses when Kate shakes her head, and after a second understanding flashing in his eyes. "You don't want a stranger touching you," he murmurs.

The Sally incident plays in Beckett's memory, makes her grit her teeth. "Doesn't seem like the best idea, no." She takes a long breath through her nose, forces her body to relax, her mouth to curve up in something of a smile. "So, Castle. How good are your hair-cutting skills?"

* * *

He makes her sit on the chair in his bedroom, right in front of the mirror. He's wary of touching her neck, her beautiful bruised neck, but Kate said that if she could look at him all along, watch his face and his hands and _see him_, she'd be okay.

He can't start doubting her now.

Castle got a pair of scissors from the kitchen; it's lying on the bed now. But he doesn't reach for them right away. He starts by combing Kate's hair with his fingers, separating the wet strands, letting her get used to his proximity.

Her eyes in the mirror are dark.

"I make no promises, Beckett," he jokes wanly. "I do a decent French braid, and I give amazing massages if I dare say so myself, but hair-cutting doesn't exactly feature at the top of my long and varied list of skills."

He's rewarded with a slow, delicious half-smile. "Really, Castle. I'm disappointed. I thought Alexis'd done a better job of raising you."

"Hey now," he mock-pouts. "You've seen my daughter's hair. She was all about growing it out; she'd need pins and hair ties and headbands, sure, but scissors, not so much." Well, until she went to Paris and decided to go for a more fashionable hairstyle.

Castle tries not to sigh at the thought of his little girl all grown up.

"You'll do fine," Kate says, her voice warm, if a little amused. "Just make sure it's all roughly the same length. I won't sue you if it's not exactly what I wanted, Castle."

He huffs a laugh, reaches for the comb and scissors. It's not really the hair he's worried about, but he's not going to tell her that. Instead he carefully brushes through her mane of dark hair, making sure it's all evenly spread around her head before he gathers the upper layer together, twists it up with a pin. Then he starts cutting.

He's spent a certain number of hours in hair salons, actually, and whenever made to wait Castle always did what he does best: he watched. There's something mesmerizing about the way hairdressers treat their clients' hair, like it's a valuable, living thing that needs to be handled with the greatest care, and he finds his own hands instinctively imitating their gestures.

"If I didn't know any better," Kate murmurs, her quiet inflections breaking the silence in a way that's maybe too intimate, "I'd say you were being modest, Rick."

He doesn't answer. Even through her teasing he hears the breathlessness, hears how hard it must be for her to just stand still and take it, his hands and scissors moving around her neck; he only wants to be done with it.

It's not completely unlike writing. He reaches a deep state of concentration where all that matters is the length of her dark locks, and he slides his fingers through her hair, compares, cuts, compares, cuts, until at last he's satisfied.

His neck hurts, he realizes, blinking as he lets go of the comb, of the scissors. When he looks into the mirror Kate is staring back at him, some deep emotion in her eyes that he can't quite decipher.

"What do you think?" he asks a little nervously, because suddenly he cares. He cares. He's stupid.

She finally looks at her own reflection, running her fingers along her neck, threading them through her now-short hair. It stops an inch above her shoulders, like she asked, and it makes her look different - younger.

A little more like the hard-edged detective Beckett who crashed his party over six years ago.

"It's good," she rasps. "It's really good. Thanks."

He nods, picks up his tools, and - pauses. "Kate."

She lifts her eyes to him. He'd forgotten about that too, that way her beauty has of punching him in the gut, flip his heart inside out.

"I'm sorry. About earlier." He would say more, but she nods softly, knowledge painting her face.

"I'm sorry too. Shouldn't have started it."

He wants to protest, say it was his fault, but it wouldn't make any difference now. And he can tell that's not what she needs. What she needs is a moment to adjust, to make friends with that new woman staring back at her in the mirror. A moment alone.

He gives himself permission to lean in and brush his lips to the dark crown of her hair, linger for a second, before he quietly makes his way out of the room.


	16. Chapter 16

"_No!"_

Rick jerks awake at the scream, fumbles for scraps of awareness. He pushes himself upright, shivers when the sheet slips off him. The room is so dark; he can barely see a thing.

He can hear though, and what he hears is terrifying. Kate's breathing is halted, too quick, and she's mumbling a string of unintelligible words that sound too much like pleading, the accent of fear unmistakeable in her voice.

He feels her jolt next to him, her body tensing against the mattress, and his eyes finally adjust enough for him to realize that she's still asleep, still trapped in whatever nightmarish visions are causing her to make those inhuman sounds.

Shit.

He reaches out but stills his hand before he can touch her, makes a fist of it. Not a good idea. Fuck, he can't think straight, and Beckett-

"No," she growls again, sounding feral this time. And so desperate.

God, so desperate.

He stretches alongside her, puts his mouth as close to her ear as he can without them coming in contact. "Kate," he murmurs urgently, his heart shattering at the small sob that falls from her lips. "Kate, it's me. It's Castle. You have to wake up, Beckett. It's just a dream. You're having a nightmare, but you're safe, you hear me? You're safe and you need to come back to me. Wake up."

She moans, so heartbreaking a sound, and he has to wrestle back the oppressive panic that rises in his chest. "Kate," he calls loudly, putting as much authority in the word as he can. "Wake up. _Wake up_. Do you hear me? Kate!"

Her eyes slam open. She sucks in a ragged breath, puts a hand around her neck, and in the sudden clarity of his ever-improving vision he notices the wetness that glistens on her cheeks.

Jerry Tyson is a dead man.

"Kate," he breathes, unable to articulate anything other than her name.

"Don't touch me," she rasps, and he's not sure if she means him or if the dream is still haunting her.

"Okay, okay," he agrees anyway, shifting back a little, putting more space between them even if it goes against his every instinct.

She's shaking, her pale skin trembling in the darkness, and her breathing is not easing up. She tries to take in a gulp of air and it comes out again as a whimper, her voice scraped raw; her eyes land on him and something snaps in her face.

She pushes back the covers and swings out of bed, staggers to the door. He's up a second after her, but he's not quite sure he should follow - until her leggings-clad legs and too-large tshirt disappear from his sight. His chest constricts so badly that his feet jerk forward without his say.

He comes into the hallway just in time to see her slip into one of the empty guest rooms. He trails after her to the door and then rests his forehead to the frame, watches the slim silhouette of her collapsed on the bed, the sobs that wreck her shoulders. She doesn't want his company - if she did she would've stayed in the master bed with him. That much is clear.

But he can't make himself go away. Even if there's nothing to do, even if he can't help her at all, he can't go back to his own bed and pretend like this never happened. Going back to sleep is not an option.

Beckett gasps against the bedspread, her hands in tight fists, and their connection is so strong that his heart twists sharply. There must be something, _anything,_ that he can do for her; he racks his brain for something that might bring her even the smallest consolation and remembers-

Yeah. Maybe that will work.

He rushes back to the master bedroom, his feet padding silently on the carpet, falls to his knees in front of his bag. He's not finished unpacking yet, and if he's right it should be in here. His palm catches on something sharp and he digs it out, his thumb stroking over the twigs, clutches the thing to his chest. Easing back onto his feet, he walks back slowly to the guest room. Kate is still curled on the bed, her tears quieter but no less poignant, and he walks in hesitantly, crouches next to the bed.

"Kate? I thought... maybe you'd like to have this," he whispers, carefully pushing the stickman onto the covers, close to her hand.

Her breath hitches and she uncurls her fingers, reaches tentatively for the little figure. Her hand closes on it, her eyes shimmering in the moonlight, and he has to shut his eyes for a beat, remember to keep his hands to himself. "Mom," she breathes.

Castle's always had the hardest time accepting that some things are better left in peace. But he breathes in, and out, and after a moment he's strong enough to retreat towards the door, his words helplessly caught in his chest. It's a struggle to wrench his eyes from her, and when at last he turns away her voice spills out softly like water and surrounds him. "Rick."

He puts a hand on the doorframe, wills himself not to look back.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and he takes that, takes her words, and holds them close to his chest until sleep finally finds him.

* * *

There are flowers on Emily Simmons's desk. Beautiful flowers - roses and lillies, a bird of paradise, some other, exotic-looking breeds that Castle doesn't recognize. The late morning sun streams through the windows and hits the arrangement just right, a riot of blues and yellows and oranges that immediately catches the eye.

Patient or lover?

"You were talking about the months you spent trying to find Kate," Emily says softly, and his attention shifts back to her, the leather couch creaking when he leans back into the cushions. "What was it that made you stop, Rick? What made you change your mind?"

He releases a breath, steals a glance at Beckett. He didn't expect this to come up today; in fact, he didn't expect he'd be doing so much of the talking.

"I, um." Shit, he's not ready for this. "I couldn't find anything. I travelled to all those places where people had been murdered in ways similar to Tyson's MO, and looked for clues, for anything indicating that it was him, that Kate was alive, but..." He doesn't really want to find words for it, for the emptiness that sank ever deeper into his bones every time he came back to New York with _nothing_, every time he stood at his front door with the weight of failure on his shoulders.

"And yet you kept looking for - how long was it you said?"

"Nine months," he grunts, realizes perfectly well what she's doing.

"Nine months," Emily echoes, her voice so melodious that it sounds like she's talking about something else entirely. "And then suddenly you stopped?"

He stares at her, hoping to somehow get her to read his mind. He doesn't want to lie, but it's not like he's exactly dying to tell Kate about her dad's involvement either. "I did," he says, swallowing past the bitter taste in his mouth. He carefully avoids looking at Beckett. "I stopped."

"I don't believe you," Kate says, quiet but decisive. She can still tell when he's lying, apparently.

He says nothing, spreads his palms at his thighs, rubs his thumb against his jeans. He can feel both women's eyes on him, boring holes into his forehead.

"Rick?" Emily asks gently. He suddenly regrets allowing her to use his first name.

"Castle," Kate says sternly, and he's reached the end of his resistance anyway. He's always been terrible at denying her things.

"Your dad," he admits, finding her eyes with his. He's not used to the short hair yet, and it keeps startling him, that striking echo of a past Beckett. "Your dad came to see me."

She lets out a breath of surprise. "My dad?"

He forgets about the therapy, forgets about Emily sitting there. It's only him and Kate, the way it should always have been. "I was - drowning in it. I'd let Alexis leave for Paris, let my mother move out. Esposito and Ryan weren't speaking to me. Gina was only calling to yell at me about the books and breaking promises and acting responsible. It wasn't exactly my finest moment."

Kate's eyes shine with something that's more than sympathy, something that's a deep, dark kind of understanding because she knows exactly what it's like, because she's been in that same place. He has to look away from it, find the broken thread of his words. "So one night that I'd been drinking in my study and compiling notes and looking at the same facts for hours, for days, your dad showed up at my door. He, um, put his hands on my shoulders and told me that I had to stop. That you were dead and I was throwing my life away, and you would never have wanted that for me."

"He was right," she murmurs, but he can tell just from her halted breaths that she's crying.

He looks up at her, the tears on her cheeks, the vibrant feeling in her eyes. "Except for the most important thing," he says. _You were alive._

Kate averts her face and presses a hand to her mouth, does that fast-blinking thing she does when she's trying to push back the tears.

Emily gives her a moment to gather herself, then asks, "What are you feeling, Kate?"

A long shudder ripples through Beckett's body and she looks at the therapist, a little desperate, a lot stubborn. "He couldn't have known," she rasps. "He couldn't have known."

"It's okay to be angry," Emily says kindly. "Even if it's your father, it's okay to be angry at him for-"

"Did it help?" Kate asks suddenly, her head swiveling towards Castle. "That... dark obsessive place that you said you were trapped in. Did my dad help you out of it?"

He gapes at her. This isn't about him, this is-

"Castle." Her sharp tone belies the need that spills out of her eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, it helped. It was - I needed it. I don't know how long I could've kept going like that." If he'd found nothing, that is. But that's best left unsaid.

Kate takes a long, relieved breath and her shoulders slump gradually, her lashes fluttering dark on her cheeks. "Okay," she says, nodding to herself. "Okay. That's enough for me."

He opens his mouth to argue, closes it, looks over at Emily Simmons in the hope that she'll say something. But she's watching Beckett with attentive, sympathetic eyes, and he thinks there might even be a small dose of admiration in there as the therapist skillfully takes control of the session again.

* * *

He goes for a run on the beach after Beckett has gone to bed. He doesn't want to make her jealous, dangle things in front of her that her body can't handle yet, but he absolutely needs it - the silent night wrapping around him, the steady pound of his blood in his chest, his feet, his arms, the way his brain goes completely quiet and shuts down.

He needs to not think.

Not think about the nightmares that she might be having right this second. Not think about the exhaustion that made her drag her feet after the physical therapy, about the time she spent staring into space, curled on the couch while he made them dinner. Not think about the fragile line of her neck that's no longer hidden by her hair, the slowly-shifting color of her bruises.

Castle lasts longer than he thought he would, only stops because his right foot catches on a dead branch and he's not fast enough to recover his balance. Instead he goes down, the sand cushioning his fall, and he rolls onto his back, chest heaving, the starlit sky spread out above him.

Beautiful.

He stares for a long time, lets his mind wander down a few familiar paths, stories of aliens and advanced civilizations that he will never write. They're old friends to him, scenarios that have accompanied him his whole life, have changed and grown along with him. He's happy to see them again.

With a grunt he pushes himself into a sitting position, his body now cool and shivering. He takes a deep breath of the sea air and then gets to his feet; that's when his phone rings sharply in his pocket. He'd forgotten he had it with him.

Rick retrieves his iphone, studies the unknown number. It's ten forty, and he can't think of anyone who'd be calling him at this hour. Unless something's happened to his mother?

"Rick Castle," he answers, his stomach lurching.

"Rick, hi. This is Jim. Beckett."

Ah. Not his mother then. "Jim. Hey. I've, ah - I've been expecting your call." Castle starts walking back, hunches his shoulders against the night breeze.

"Yeah, I know. I had to track down your number first; I thought I had it stacked somewhere, but I couldn't get my hands on it. Managed to get a hold of your publisher today, though." Gina. Shit. "I had to explain about the whole situation," Jim goes on, "and she didn't seem too happy that she had to hear it from me. If I were you, I think I'd avoid her calling for the next couple days."

"Thanks for the warning," Castle winces. He knows Gina. _Didn't seem too happy_ is probably the understatement of the year.

Jim goes silent on the other end, but maybe he's just slowly putting his words together like Kate does. Rick waits on him for a moment, is about to say something when the older man finally speaks. "To tell you the truth, Rick, I wasn't sure you'd want to speak to me." Castle opens his mouth in protest, but Jim beats him to it. "Don't say anything, son, just - listen to me. I've spent the last few days feeling terrible about myself. I should've been on your side. She's my _daughter_; I should've known better, should have believed in her the way you did."

Castle snorts at that, can't help himself - _the way he did_, really - but Kate's father won't have it. "Don't think I don't know my part of responsibility in this, Rick. If I hadn't intervened, if I hadn't stopped you, you would have kept looking. We both know this. And I... owe you an apology, if nothing else."

Rick gives himself a moment to turn the words in his head, let them sink in, and he chooses his answer carefully. "Do you know what would have happened if I'd kept looking?"

There's a beat of silence. "You would have found her earlier," Jim says, his voice raw with regret.

"Maybe," Castle concedes. "But I'll give another scenario, just as likely. I would have grown more and more desperate; it would've come to a point when I'd have been ready to do anything rather than have to come home without her. And maybe one day I'd have investigated the wrong guy, and I would've been a little too reckless, and I would've gotten myself killed over nothing." He hasn't let himself think this through yet; he's been too disgusted with himself to accept any kind of comfort. But this is different. It's about Jim, Jim who is Kate's father and has already lost the love of his life, and as he spins the story Castle can't help but recognize the probability of that other scenario. "And then, when the FBI finally rescued her, Kate would not only have had to readjust to a normal life - she would also have had to deal with losing me. And do you really think she wouldn't have considered herself responsible for my death?"

He hears the long, shaky breath that Jim sucks in over the phone. "It's - a possibility," the older man says, clearly as reluctant as Castle to be comforted, forgiven for his actions.

"Exactly," Rick says, quickening his pace when a particularly strong gust of wind finds its way through his jacket. "Possibilities, Jim. That's all those scenarios are. And we can't keep beating ourselves up over possibilities. Because the truth is? We don't know what would've happened if you hadn't come to the loft that night. And we don't know that Kate's fate would've been any better." Saying the words out loud is so freeing - it makes them real, makes them _true_, and he's almost dizzy with it.

Maybe he wouldn't have found her. Maybe all he would've done was make himself so miserable that he wouldn't have been able to take it.

Who knows?

"Thank you," Jim says at last, emotion thickening his voice. "Thank you for this, Rick. I might not - believe it completely, but it... helps."

Castle nods, then realizes that Jim can't see him. "Good. You know that Kate loves you; she'd never want you to feel guilty about this. We both know that you meant well. It's all that matters really."

Another silence. Rick can almost hear the man struggle not to argue, and after a few heavy seconds Jim drops the subject. "Tell me, then. How's Katie?" It's obvious from the strain in his tone that this is the question he's been dying to ask all along, the question he most fears the answer to.

Castle thinks of Beckett sobbing in the guest bedroom, the determination in her eyes back in Emily's office, the thick gauze around her too-thin wrists, and he remembers Jim's words from long ago.

"She's staring down the dark," he says.


	17. Chapter 17

Kate has a cell phone.

A sleek, black, shiny thing that fills her palm and takes photos and connects to the internet whenever she wants to. It's not that different from her old one, really; when she skims her thumb over the screen it light ups and displays a photo of Castle's "killer face". His number is speed dial one, of course, and her list of contacts features her dad, Esposito, Ryan, Lanie, even Captain Gates.

It's - weird.

For two years all she could think about was getting her hands on Tyson's cell phone. She obsessed over it day and night, the calls she would make if she managed to lift it off him, the numbers her fingers would press in order to get Castle on the line. _I'm alive. Help me. Find me._

And now she's got a phone of her own, shimmering enticingly at her as the morning light falls on the screen, and she hardly knows what to do with it.

She tries, though. She goes outside and takes a couple shots of the sea, the beach, of Castle standing by the French door. She makes that his profile picture and tries out the different apps, deletes a few that she doubts she'll ever use (_Let's Golf_, really?).

But when she slides it in her back pocket the phone feels heavy and out of place, and she can't help but think that it's somewhat stupid to have a cell when the only person she wants to call lives in the same house as her. It's - a waste of his money.

Every time she gets to that same conclusion though, she reminds herself of the look on Castle's face when they walked out of the phone shop, the extra bounce in his step and the happy nonsense that flowed from his mouth. If the only thing Rick Castle needs to feel safe is for her to be carrying that sleek, foreign cell in her pocket, well - she will.

* * *

They fall into a rhythm.

Every other day Castle drives them to Emily's office in the morning, and they have lunch in town afterwards in a cute café that serves the most amazing soups. The physical therapy is two hours every day, always in the afternoon; Castle usually takes a book with him to read while he waits, but it generally remains unopened. There's so much to observe, so many mundane interactions between the staff that he finds himself listening to, so much good and bad news being delivered in that very room. He watches, makes mental notes. Somewhere inside him the need to write slowly awakens, rearing its sleepy head. Castle is careful not to move, not to do anything. He doesn't want to scare it away.

On the sunny days he takes a walk on the beach, enjoys the pale winter sun on his face and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. He's started to recognize people; the old man with a marine cap that always sits on the same bench gives a nod when Castle walks by, and there's a mother of three - Aliena, he learns on the third time he sees her, when her youngest boy accidentally throws a baseball at Rick's face - who turns out to be a fan of his. She doesn't ask for his autograph though. She only says she hopes that one day he will feel the need to write the end of Nikki's story, and whenever that time comes she'll be waiting.

He walks away from her humbled and grateful and uncertain.

He's talked to his daughter twice. Alexis showed all appropriate feelings on Skype, surprise and joy and horror at what Kate'd been through, but he still feels like something's missing, like their old connection isn't - quite the same. He tells himself it's the distance, it's only because she's all the way in Paris, but the truth is he's disappointed that Alexis wasn't more excited for him, more eager to come back. She said she would look at flights once her internship was over, in two months' time.

Two months.

It's probably for the best. He doesn't know how Beckett would feel about his daughter coming here. They've established a careful balance, a fragile world around the two of them, and he doesn't want to mess with it. It's too early.

So it's good that Alexis has her own life. That she's not flying back and rushing to see them. Really, it's good.

But he does miss his daughter.

* * *

It's been three weeks. Castle sits in one of the wonderfully comfortable armchairs in his library, pretending to read but really watching Kate do laps in the swimming pool. The line of her is mesmerizing, the way she works together with the water, the renewed strength of her arms, her dark, glistening hair. He's leaning back, thinking he could watch her all day long - he could watch her forever - when his phone vibrates against his thigh.

Huh. A call from Jordan. He stares at the screen for a breath or two, anxiety coiling in his chest like a snake, and then he makes himself pick up. "Jordan, hey."

"Castle." Oh, not good. Her voice is controlled and brisk and there's no way this is a courtesy call. "Is Beckett around?"

"She's - swimming," he says, his eyes drifting back to the window, to the seamlessly-moving form of her. "I can go get her if you wa-"

"No, that's fine," Shaw says decidedly. "I'd rather talk to you first."

The snake lifts its head and hisses. "What's wrong?" he says, already breathless. _Please don't let Tyson have escaped please don't let Tyson have escaped-_

"Tyson's dead," Shaw drops coolly, and it's so unexpected that for a moment Castle can't make sense of the words. Dead. _Dead? _

"What? How?"

"One of the inmates. We don't know who yet; my guys are going through the security footage as we speak. But Tyson was found this morning lying in a pool of his blood. Somebody cut his throat."

It's completely surreal. Is he dreaming? "Are you, uh - sure - it's him?" He winces, doesn't want to sound like he's questioning Shaw's competence, but after the man's last disappearing act-

"Yes," she says, and she must be confident enough because her clipped tone relaxes sensibly. "I identified his body myself, Rick. The ME's running DNA just in case, but it's him. A slit throat's not as easy to fake as a heart attack, you know."

Even so. "You mind calling or texting when you get the DNA results?"

"Sure." She sounds like she was already planning on it. "Now, you wanna be the one to tell Beckett, or should I?"

He glances at the window. Kate's silhouette stands out against the pale blue sky as she wraps herself in a towel, runs a hand through her wet hair. He wishes she wouldn't linger outside in the cold, even if he knows the pool is heated and she's just been exercising. "I'll tell her," he sighs.

* * *

Kate opens the French door and slides her body through the crack, shivering despite the lovely warmth in her veins. Swimming's not her favorite sport - she was always more partial to running, to the thud of her heart heavy in her chest, the pound of her feet against the sidewalk - but she can sense the truth of her physical therapist's words. Her muscles are slowly rebuilding, day after day, and she's completely addicted to the feeling.

She'd spend every waking hour in the pool if she thought it would help.

Well, not that Castle would let her. She knows he monitors the time she spends exercising; he'll drop small comments at dinner about not overdoing it, hints that he probably thinks are subtle. And that's when he doesn't run outside the moment she comes out of the pool to wrap a towel around her shoulders.

But he's been good the last few days, has been working on it, and she feels a surge of bright tenderness for him as she drips water onto his beautiful hardwood floors. Kate rubs the towel to her hair, tries to get as much water out as she can. She's headed for a hot shower anyway - mm, the delicious pressure of the thick spray on her shoulders - but she feels a little guilty about messing up Castle's luxurious house.

Her house too, he keeps insisting.

She's walking to the stairs when he comes out of the library, so she detours to brush a kiss to his cheek. The grave look on his face stops her in her tracks.

"What is it," she rasps, her heartbeat stuttering in her chest. Someone's got to have died to make him look like this. Her mind frantically reviews everybody they know, her dad and Alexis and Martha and Ryan and Esposito - but surely if any of them had died Castle would be crying, would-

"Maybe you should sit down," he suggests uncertainly, and she wants to grab him and drag the words out of his throat.

"Castle," she hisses. She does feel for the wall with her hand just in case, and she's only half-breathing as she watches him swallow, knit his brow.

"Tyson was killed in prison this morning," he says, doesn't pause between the words. "Someone cut his throat."

Kate blinks. Once. Twice. "What?"

Castle's looking at her like he's afraid she will explode or something. "Jordan just called me to let me know. The FBI's investigating, but she said she identified the body, Kate. She's certain it's him."

No. _No. _"She's wrong," Beckett says, has to lick her lips, breathe through the cold fist of terror that closes around her chest. "Castle. You don't believe that, do you? You know what this is. He's found a way out. He's coming for us." Saying the words out loud makes it more real, and she shivers, walks back into the wall.

Oh god, oh god. They have to run. They have to grab anything they can and run - if they get into the car in the next ten minutes, if they don't tell anybody where they're going and throw away the phones and the credit cards, maybe they have a chance-

"Kate." Castle's steady voice breaks through the haze of panic and she looks at him, looks into his eyes and _sees_.

"You do believe it," she breathes out, stunned. "No, no, no. Castle, listen to me-"

"You listen to me," he says softly, reaching out a hand that slowly curls around her forearm. "I know you're scared, Kate, and I understand, but Jordan wouldn't tell me this if she wasn't absolutely sure..."

"You _don't_ understand," she cuts him off in despair. "Castle. Please. Jordan doesn't know what he can do. _I know. _I know, and there's no way I'm going to stay here and wait for him to _find me._"

"He won't find you," Castle says, strong, unwavering. "He will never find you again. He's dead. He's not coming back, Beckett."

She shakes her head fiercely. "No. That's impossible. No. People like Tyson don't die. He wouldn't let himself get killed."

There's a beat of silence. "Are you - sorry - that he's dead?"

She glares at him. _"What?"_

He opens an embarrassed mouth, immediately backpedals. "It's just - you look - that looks like denial, and denial is-" He doesn't finish his sentence, probably because of the anger that's radiating off her.

"Mark my words," she says slowly, detaching every syllable. "Tyson. Is. Not. Dead. And you and I need to be getting the hell out of here. So pack your bags, Castle, and I'll meet you at the door in ten."

She wrenches her arm from his hold, spins around and heads for the stairs, and he doesn't try to stop her.

* * *

Ah. What to do?

He doesn't know what to do.

Castle remains frozen in the hallway for maybe two minutes, listening to the sounds of Kate packing upstairs, the soft thumps of clothes thrown haphazardly in a bag. Then he rubs a hand down his face, releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Tyson's dead. Right? He has to be. Shaw wouldn't call if she wasn't certain.

Rick glances down at the phone in his hand. It would help if the DNA check could come through right about now, but that's not gonna happen.

Okay, well. He trusts Jordan. She's never lied to him. And Kate - Kate is freaking out right now, for understandable reasons, but she's not being rational. So it falls on him to be sensible for them both.

And they're not going to run. Kate's barely started to get back on her feet - hell, _he's_ only just beginning to believe it might not be a dream - and Castle's not going to let the ghost of Jerry Tyson ruin what they've tentatively built together.

He pockets his phone and heads for the stairs, gathering as much resolve as he can find. It's pointless though, because he forgets all of his expertly-constructed sentences when he finds her zipping her travel bag shut, sees the trembling hands she pushes through her hair.

Fuck.

"Castle, what are you _doing_?" she snaps as she turns and sees him just standing there at the door. "We don't have much time. Grab your stuff and let's _go._"

He doesn't think he's ever seen Kate Beckett terrified before. Even when she went up against the Dragon, even when they found out the identity of Senator Bracken. She was scared, yeah - she's not stupid - but there was always some measure of hope, always her steel-like determination pushing her forward.

He's never known her to run away.

"No," he says. His voice comes out too soft, almost a question, so he clears his throat. "I'm not leaving."

She's been moving towards the bathroom, probably to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything, but his words make her freeze. She spins back at once, her face a blend of hesitation and disbelief, like she's hoping she heard him wrong. "What?"

Castle squares his shoulders, reminds himself he's doing this for her own good, for the good of them both. "I'm not going anywhere, Kate." She stares at him, her eyes shimmering with absolute desperation, and in the face of her silence he can do nothing but keep going. "Jerry Tyson is dead," he says, as if maybe she didn't hear the first time. "Gone. Drowned in his own blood. Tell me, what is there for me to run from?"

She lifts her hands, to grab him or maybe plead with him, he's not sure. "You don't understand," she rasps. "Castle, listen to me."

He takes a chance, a step forward, and gently wraps his hands around hers. "I understand better than you think. I understand you're scared, and you'd do anything rather than let Tyson find you again. So would I, Beckett. I have a gun in my safe in the library. But I'm not going to get it out, because we won't need it. You hear me? He's dead. No one's coming for you."

She's not looking at him. Her eyes are on the window instead, her chest rising and falling too quickly, and he's surprised she hasn't already jerked away from him. "If he's still alive..." she breathes out, shaking her head against the hideous possibility.

"He's not," Rick says, prays to God that Jordan was right. He's not sure what he'll do if Tyson ever shows up again. "Jordan assured me that he was dead, Kate, and I trust Jordan."

She's still shaking her head, her mouth pressed tight to contain what he fears is a sob.

"Do you trust me?" he asks quietly. It's completely unfair of him, but he doesn't know how else to convince her to stay put. And for some reason, it's suddenly very important that he succeed.

She turns wide, pleading eyes to him. _Stay strong_, he tells himself. _Don't give in. _He feels like a complete bastard, and for a series of paralyzing heartbeats everything hangs in the balance, all those words unsaid between them, all the things she hasn't shared and maybe won't.

But after what feels like an eternity the tension finally seeps out of her, her fingers loosening against his, and she slowly collapses into his chest, her forehead pressing to his shoulder as she clutches a fistful of his shirt. Her heart is still pounding; he can feel it thrum against the back of his hand, her breath erratic at his collarbone.

"We'll be okay," he promises her stupidly, because there's just no way for him to know that. "We'll be okay."

She only grips him tighter.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay, guys. Life intrudes. Thanks for your amazing support, though - I can't tell you how happy it makes me!

* * *

Kate's not breathing. She's not thinking. She holds Castle's phone in her sweaty palm, her knees against her chest, her heels digging into the leather couch, and she _waits._

She waits for Jordan's call.

She's barely aware of the world around her; Castle talks to her a couple times, and she talks back - snaps at him, probably - but the words vanish from her mind as soon as they're spoken, nothing lingering, nothing real except for the iphone she clings to like a lifeline.

She still wants to run. Hide. Every fiber of her being is _dying _to flee, and it's a constant effort to remain immobile on the couch, to negate the energy that burns in her body.

When at last the phone rings she startles badly, has to take a second to collect herself before she picks up. "Beckett."

"Kate, hi." Jordan sounds only mildly surprised. "DNA results just came in. This is definitely Jerry Tyson's body we're dealing with. He's gone. For good."

Kate sinks deeper into the couch, bites hard into the flat of her thumb. "You're sure."

"I'm sure." There's a kindness in Shaw's voice that makes Beckett's skin prickle. "How are you doing?"

"I've seen better days." She can feel Castle hovering, his concern and curiosity almost palpable, but she ignores him a little longer. "Jordan, I know this is going to sound a little creepy, but do you think you could send us the crime scene photos?"

"Of course. You want to see it for yourself. Understandable." There's a small pause on Jordan's side. "You know, Kate, you could come here if you wanted. If you need it."

Kate opens her mouth, looks up at Castle's worried eyes, at the gorgeous house he's made hers, at the grey line of the sea in the distance. "I - I'll get back to you on that. I'll take a look at the photos first and see if... they help."

"Okay. Whatever I can do, Detective."

Detective. No one's called her that in a long time. "Thanks," Kate says, and she hangs up. Castle drops to the couch next to her, relief painting his face.

"DNA analysis confirmed it was Tyson's body?"

"Yeah," she says, her mouth dry as she reaches for his hand, laces their fingers.

"Thank God," he murmurs, tugging her into his side and brushing his mouth to her forehead. "Thank God."

Kate presses her forehead to his cheek and says nothing, as if by her silence she can quell the great riot of feelings gathering in her chest.

* * *

The crime scene photos are gruesome. Tyson's eyes are still open, empty, the hideous wound gaping at his throat. There's blood everywhere, spatters of it across the bed frame even though the body rests on the concrete ground.

Kate forces herself to look, ignores the nausea that rises in her throat. There's no denying that the man on the photo is dead, no denying that he looks exactly like Jerry Tyson; inch by inch her body loosens, relaxes into the desk chair.

She's crying before she even knows it, warm, quiet tears streaming down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

It's a long, long time before she can make herself stop, and when Castle finally comes into his study she knows from the look on his face that she hasn't quite managed to erase the tracks of her tears.

* * *

She dreams of Coonan that night. Dick Coonan. They're back in the precinct and he has his gun to Castle's back, that irritating smile on his face; this time she moves when she shouldn't and Castle gets shot. His blue eyes are wide as she rushes to him, crimson blooming slowly over his shirt, and she catches him just before he collapses. She urges to him to stay with her -_ don't you _dare_ leave me, Castle_ - as she lowers him to the ground, falls to her knees with his head cradled in her lap; drops splash onto his forehead, one, two, three, and she realizes in shock that they're her own tears.

She closes her eyes, desperate entreaties still rolling off her tongue, but when she looks at him again it's Jerry Tyson's head that rests on her thighs, his dead eyes staring at her.

Her hands are covered in blood.

* * *

"Would you mind stepping out for a moment, Rick? I'd like to talk to Kate alone."

Beckett snaps out of her daydream - _daynightmare_'s a better word for it - just in time to see Castle stand out reluctantly, his eyes meeting hers and holding them for a long beat before he walks out of Emily's office.

She swallows and draws her knees up, her flats long abandoned on the floor. The therapist waits patiently, the encouragement, the understanding in her blue gaze almost too much. "How are you feeling, Kate?"

There's no answer to that question. Or rather, there are too many. "Um. Skeptical?" she tries to joke. Emily doesn't laugh.

"You said they'd run a DNA check though, right? And you've seen pictures of the body. But you still don't believe he's dead?"

Kate shifts in the armchair, blows out a long breath. "I do. I do, I just... Rationally, I believe it. But emotionally-"

"You're still afraid," Emily says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. She watches Beckett intently. "Kate, could it also be that you simply don't want Jerry Tyson to be dead?"

Kate opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it again. "What - what do you mean, not want him to be dead-"

"He was the only person you had any contact with for the last two years. And you've talked about the ways he tried to win your trust, how he would come into your room and start a normal conversation with you, reward your good behavior with better food, new clothes. The hardest thing about hostage situations, Kate, especially when they go on for such a length of time, is that it's impossible for a relationship not to develop between the kidnapper and the victim."

"I didn't have a _relationship_ with Tyson," Beckett rasps, her teeth gritted.

Emily tilts her head. "I know how tempting denial is at this stage, trust me. But it's not going to help you in the long run. You're gonna have to accept the influence that Tyson had on your life if you want a chance to move past it."

Kate remains silent, her mouth firmly pressed shut.

"You have a right to be sad, you know. We're sad when our favorite actors die, and we don't even know them. We've never spoken to them. But you spoke to Jerry Tyson. You knew him. It's okay to let yourself be sad, even for a minute."

"I'm not _sad,_" Beckett growls, leaning forward. "You wanna know how I feel? Try relieved. Try disappointed."

"Disappointed." Emily watches her with close interest. "Why?"

"Why do you think? Tyson was smart enough to fake his own death and take me with him. He was smart enough to hold me on a leash for two years, catch me every time I tried to run, and now what - he gets himself killed in prison like a complete fool?"

She can feel the tears wetting her cheeks, doesn't know what to hate more, the complete absence of control she has on herself or the look of dawning understanding on Dr. Simmons's face.

"It makes him less of a man," the therapist says slowly, her eyes still on Kate. "It makes him less of a man in your eyes, that he was killed that way. And so, what - it makes you less of a woman because you were his hostage? Because you couldn't escape?"

What? "No," Kate protests vehemently, using the back of her hand to wipe her cheeks. "No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm - I-" What _is_ she saying?

"That's how you reasoned it away. He was crazy and a murderer, but he was also very smart. And that made it okay that you hadn't managed to run away. It made it not your fault. But his death - his foolish death, to use your words - it makes it your fault again, doesn't it?"

Shit, it hurts. The words burn into Beckett's skin like an iron, send more tears streaming down her face. Emily's right. She's right.

It's hard to breathe.

When the therapist speaks again her voice is startling, so close and warm; Kate lifts her head and realizes Emily's moved from her usual seat to the end of the couch, right next to her. "You're not responsible for any of it, Kate. It doesn't matter that Jerry Tyson is alive or dead; _you_ are not to blame here. Please tell me you understand that."

Beckett bites her bottom lip, struggles with it all, the relentless crying and the memories of Jerry Tyson's smirking face, Jerry Tyson holding her down, Jerry Tyson's bullet tearing through her thigh before she could climb out the window she'd managed to open. If she'd been faster; if she'd been faster and stronger and smarter-

"You're not to blame," Emily assures, the rich tones of her voice wrapping around Kate like a blanket. "You did everything you could. And Kate, you have to trust me here. It doesn't matter _why_ those things happened - why you couldn't escape, why Tyson died in prison. The only thing that matters is that you're safe now. You're safe, and none of this was your fault. Okay?"

Beckett takes a great gulping breath, rubs a trembling hand down her cheek. "Okay," she nods. "Okay. Yes." She forces a laugh out of her throat. "I feel like I've cried every damn day since I got back."

The other woman smiles. "It's going to take some time, you know. You should go easy on yourself."

Right. Kate scrapes together a smile back, slides her feet into her flats and pushes herself up.

Go easy on herself. Has she ever known how to do that?

* * *

The sky is a deep grey, but the wind is almost nonexistent when Castle parks next to the beach, gets out of the car. He adjusts the scarf around his neck and turns to Kate; she's already closed her own door and taken a few steps towards the beach. The slim form of her in her long black coat stands out starkly against the deep, ever-moving background of the sea.

She didn't want to do to her PT session today, so they called to cancel, came here instead. To the beach where he sometimes waits for her.

He watches her for a few heartbeats, unsure what to do, how to help. She's been different since they got confirmation of Tyson's death, more withdrawn, more brittle, and Castle doesn't know how to react because this is completely unexpected for him. He was mad himself - he was _furious_, in fact, that Tyson took the easy way out, that he's not going to rot in prison for what he did to Kate and all these other women - but at the same time, the relief is so strong. Like a weight's been taken off Rick's chest, like he can finally breathe again without looking over his shoulder.

He thought she'd feel that too, when the shock wore off. He thought they'd be able to relax together, enjoy a moment to themselves without the shadow of Jerry Tyson looming over them.

But instead Kate has been this quiet sort of sad that he can't really call anything else but _grieving_, and he just doesn't understand.

He hates not understanding.

Beckett pivots slowly, detaching her gaze from the sea as she searches for him, and his heart leaps when her eyes find his and a ghost of a smile lifts the corner of her mouth. He comes forward eagerly, stands as close as he dares; their shoulders touch and she surprises him again, rests her head to his shoulder. "Thank you for bringing me here," she says. "You were right. It's the perfect place."

He looks at her, can't find words for the sudden pride that blooms inside him. She starts walking and he follows, will always follow, captivated as he is by the movement of her hair on her neck, the steady rhythm of her words.

"When I woke up in that basement the first time, I knew right away. That it wasn't New York. The air was too different, colder, cleaner. It smelled like pine trees. I think maybe that was the worst part of it, how in the winter it would smell like pine and snow and I could even hear birds sometimes. It made me _die_ to go out, see it for myself, walk freely through the forest."

"Did you ever ask him to let you out? Promise not to run away in exchange for a moment outside?" The very question makes him ache, makes his hand curl into a fist, but the need to know is stronger than everything else.

She sucks in a long breath. "Yeah, I did. Several times. But Tyson didn't believe me. Said he couldn't trust me not to run." She gives a small shrug. "Maybe he was right. I don't know that I could have resisted temptation, if I'd gotten even the smallest taste of freedom."

"Jeez, Beckett, I thought I was supposed to be the writer here."

"Well, you've not exactly held up your end of the bargain." Her head swivels to him the moment the words are out of her mouth, her eyes startled and desolate. "Castle, I - I didn't mean that."

"It's okay," he says with a smile, taking the chance to link arms with her, tug tuck her a little closer. "What is it they say? Truth will set you free or something."

She relaxes visibly at his feeble attempt at a joke. "Yeah, I don't think truth has that kind of power in real life."

He chuckles. "My dear Beckett, I do believe that's a metaphorical way of speaking. You know, as in, _telling the truth will make you feel better _rather than _truth is a get-out-of-jail-free card._"

She gives him the traditional Beckett eyeroll and he wants nothing more than to kiss her senseless, thread his hands through her short hair. "Wow, Castle, thanks. I would never have gotten that without you." Her voice is heavy with sarcasm, and it's music to his ears.

"I know, right? Admit it, Kate. You'd be completely lost without me."

She glances at him sideways, and he immediately wants to take the words back. Too soon. Idiot, he's an idiot. "Well. You do know how to make yourself useful," she concedes with a tiny smile, bumping shoulders with him. His caught breath rushes out of him; his heart flutters in relief.

"Useful," he repeats with fake indignation. "I cook for you-"

"You'd cook for yourself," she volleys back. "What's making a little more?"

Oh, she wants to play that game, huh? "I clean."

"If by cleaning you mean hiring somebody who will do it for you."

He gives a dramatic gasp at such unfairness. "I make you coffee every morning, Beckett. I prepare it lovingly with my own hands, occasionally burning my tongue as I make sure that it won't be too hot for you. Doesn't that count for something?"

She ducks her head, her chin disappearing into her scarf, but he can still see the smile on her face, the soft look in her eyes when she flicks them up at him. "Yeah, it does."

* * *

They're debating over Emily Simmons's relationship status as Castle parks the car in the garage, Kate arguing that the absence of a wedding ring doesn't necessarily mean Emily's single. "There's a mark on her finger where the ring would be, Castle. She's taking it off for the sessions-"

"Or she took it off after she divorced her husband," he objects, cutting the engine. "She worked long hours - she's clearly invested in her patients - and he was not a patient man, got tired of it, started an affair with the neighbor. Ohh, or a work colleague. Yeah, better story."

"Why are you so determined to make her miserable?" Kate says while she gets out of the car. "Maybe she has a wonderful husband who takes care of the kids when she has to work late and waits up for her with a bottle of wine."

"Kids." Castle pushes his door shut, gives her a surprised look. "You think she has kids? She doesn't strike me as a kid person."

Kate laughs at him - that's right, a real laugh, a lovely sound that brushes over him like velvet. "Okay, Castle, I guess we'll just agree to disagree. Clearly we haven't been dealing with the same person." She lifts her eyebrows like _he_'s the one who's got it completely wrong (ha, kids!) but he lets it lie, too content to be walking alongside her into the house, their hands almost touching.

He closes the door and then squats down to collect the mail. It's been mostly ads, because he hasn't told many people where he is, so he knits his brow when he finds a brown padded envelope.

A brown padded envelope with Kate's name on it.

His throat closes up and he flips it immediately, looking for a return address, something that will tell him-

_United States Penitentiary, Lewisburg._

Tyson wrote to her?


	19. Chapter 19

Kate sits at the kitchen table, her hands spread out in front of her. The brown envelope rests inches away from her fingertips, but she makes no movement towards it.

Castle is walking in circles around her, his phone resting flat in his open palm, his voice strained as he talks to Jordan Shaw on speaker, and all that Beckett can think about is how strange it is that she spent two years in close proximity with Jerry Tyson and yet she has no idea what his handwriting looks like.

"No, no, nothing else. Only Kate's name, my address in the Hamptons, and the stamp. Says it was sent three days ago from Lewisburg Penitentiary."

"Okay, Castle," Shaw says calmly. "Try to relax. My guys are already on the phone with the woman responsible for all outgoing mail at the penitentiary. She'll be able to tell us exactly when and by whom this was sent. The good news is, they're very careful with the mail they send out, so there's no way anything in that envelope is a danger to either of you."

"There are different kinds of danger," Castle mutters, but he finally stops pacing, drops to the chair opposite Kate's.

"Keep in mind that Tyson is dead," Shaw replies. "There's only so much he can do to hurt you. Whatever this letter is, it was sent before he got himself killed. There won't be any others. Should you decide to burn this one, that's the last you'll ever hear of him."

Kate lifts her head at the words, their finality settling heavily on her.

The last they'll ever hear of him.

There's a long silence filled only with Castle's sighs, Castle's fingers rustling through his hair, the cracks of the wood every time his antsy knee connects with the table leg. Kate buries her face in her hands, the sounds grating at her nerves, and when finally she can't take it anymore and opens her mouth to say something, Shaw beats her to it.

"Okay, here's what we know. Three letters addressed to Kate Beckett left Lewisburg three days ago. Senders are Neil Griffin, Todd Murray and Ellis Wood. Any of them ring a bell, Beckett?"

Kate frowns. "No."

"Not really surprising. Probably random inmates that Tyson somehow convinced to send those letters on his behalf. He could have talked to them any time during meals or free period. We're still working on that. The second letter was sent out to your New York address, Rick. The third one to Jim Beckett's cabin."

Oh, shit. "No," Kate breathes out, closing her eyes for a second. Crap, crap. Whatever's in those envelopes - and given Tyson's twisted mind, it could be _anything_ - it's not something she ever wants her father to see.

"He might've already received it," Shaw says cautiously. "I'd call him if I were you, just to check. Let him know."

Her father - her father wouldn't open mail that addressed to her though, right? Beckett finds comfort in the thought. "I will. I'll call him tonight. Thanks, Jordan."

"Lewisburg also inventories the contents of the mail they send out. I'm just getting the list right now, and apparently-" The FBI agent pauses. Kate holds her breath, looks over at Castle. He's staring anxiously at the phone.

"What? What is it?"

"The envelope was sent to your New York address had a tape in it," Shaw says slowly. "The one you have is a letter and a key."

"A key?" That doesn't sound like Tyson. Kate knits her brow, half shrugs at the questioning look Castle gives her. "What about the one that was sent to my dad?"

"Just a letter. Nothing else in it."

Well, at least there's that. She lets out a sigh of relief and rubs a hand to her forehead, already thinking of what she's going to say to her father.

"There's one more thing," Shaw says. "Unrelated to the mail issue, but I was going to call you anyway. We found out who killed Tyson."

Something tightens in Kate's gut. "Oh."

"You might recognize the name, Beckett. Malcolm Grass. He's doing time for a double murder, possession and distribution. You were the one who arrested him ten years ago."

Ah. So that's what it is. "Grass," Beckett murmurs, dredging up from her memories the image of an arrogant young man with a distinctive mustache. "Yeah. I remember him."

"He's not talking yet," Jordan says, "but one of his prison buddies said he was with Grass the other day - they were having lunch and overheard Tyson talking about a woman he'd held hostage. My witness says Grass went white just listening to it. Doesn't seem too hard to figure out what happened, but we still don't know how he found the knife or got to Tyson."

Malcolm Grass. Probably the last person Beckett would've expected to defend her honor.

"Thanks, Jordan." She's exhausted all of a sudden; she stands up from her chair and walks out of the kitchen, leaves Castle to finish up that conversation.

Her body's cold.

* * *

Rick finishes the last of his carbonara pasta and glances over at Kate as he sets his fork down, noticing with a sigh that her food sits untouched on her plate. She's been quiet all night, absent, and he's caught her looking at Tyson's package more than once.

"I think we should burn it," he blurts out suddenly, can't keep his mouth shut any longer. She startles at his voice and her eyes slowly focus on him again, some life finally returning to her face.

"No," she says.

That's it. Nothing more. Just that one simple, uncompromising syllable. _No._

He should let it go; he can see that she's tired, that she's barely holding it together. But he can't stand the way she shuts him out so easily, leaves him alone with his doubts and questions and fears. He'd rather be fighting with her than keep imagining one awful scenario after the other.

"Why not?" he insists stubbornly. "Fire's good. Cleansing. We can watch that envelope burn and know for certain that it's the last thing of Tyson we'll ever-"

"I said no, Castle."

She's not even looking at him. She's standing up and moving away from the table and his heart tangles helplessly in his throat. "Kate, you've barely eaten-"

She disappears without another word and he fists his hand in frustration, has to resist the temptation to hurl his plate against the wall. Instead he gets up, stiffly, and starts piling up the dishes.

* * *

After he's loaded and started the dishwasher, Rick finds himself fingering Tyson's package, turning and returning it as if some new information will appear just because he wills it to. Stupid.

He should just open it. He should look for himself and shield Beckett if he can; she's been through so much already and she doesn't deserve any more-

"What are you doing?"

He jumps, spins towards her voice. She's so _stealthy_ - he hasn't heard her coming at all, and now she's standing in front of him and he's got her envelope in his hands and he's well aware that it must not look too good. "I was, um. I was just." Is there a way to say this?

Kate moves in so fast he hardly know what's happening. One second he's the one holding Tyson's package, and the next she's clutching it to her chest with a protectiveness that rips deep at his heart. "It's addressed to _me. _It's not yours to open," she says fiercely, her eyes challenging him.

Oh, God. This - this is bad. This is really bad. He didn't see it before - how could he not see it before? - but obviously the wound runs a lot deeper than he thought. Shit. What does he do?

"I want you to promise that you won't open it, Castle. Not unless I say so."

He stares at her in mute despair, wishes she would just let him burn the damn thing. Nothing good, nothing good can come of it. How can she not see that?

"Castle." Although her voice is clear and sharp, there's something like pleading in her eyes. Maybe this is about him after all - maybe he's wrong in thinking it's about Tyson. Maybe she just wants to protect him like he wants to protect her.

He swallows, unwilling to relent so easily. She wants him to promise? There's something he wants from her too. "All right," he says, watching her carefully. "I'll promise not to touch that envelope, Kate, if you promise to tell me everything."

She blinks, straightens imperceptibly, her lips pressed together as she looks at him.

"Everything that happened with Tyson," he continues resolutely. "I'm not saying now, or tomorrow or next week. I just want to know that in time, you'll share all of it with me. That you're not going to withhold important information just because you don't want to hurt me."

She shifts from foot to foot and cuts her eyes to the floor, pushing out a tiny sigh that he almost doesn't hear. He waits on her, walking that tight line between hopeful and desperate, until he just can't take this silence anymore. "Please, Kate." He doesn't care that he sounds pathetic; nothing matters if she will give him this, the certainty that she will be open with him. That they will recover from it all.

But Beckett digs her teeth into her bottom lip and swallows; he sees the graceful line of her throat move, the apology in the look that she flashes at him before she turns and walks out the door with her precious envelope.

Walks out on him.

He stands alone in his kitchen and tries hard not to cry.

* * *

He doesn't know what he's asking. He doesn't know.

Kate pauses in the hallway with the back of her hand pressed to her mouth, pushes back a sob as her eyes fall to the envelope she's still holding. Castle's words play again in her ears - _I think we should burn it_ - and she can't deny the attraction of it, the thought of Tyson's last manifestation going up in flames.

But Emily said - Emily said it was important to acknowledge Jerry's influence on Beckett's life if she wants a shot at moving past it, and somehow setting the package on fire doesn't quite sound like an acknowledgement of any kind.

Kate wipes a renegade tear from her cheek and then grabs her coat from the closet next to the door, works her feet into the boots that she and Castle bought last week. She did good that time, didn't attack any saleswomen - probably means she's healing or something.

She doesn't really want to carry Tyson's envelope outside with her, but she's not sure she can trust Castle not to open it, so she shoves it into her pocket as best as she can and then heads to the French door. The night is dark and windy; Kate's hair lashes against her cheeks as she walks, drawn as always by the endlessness of the sea, the murmur of the waves licking at the shore.

She understands. Really, she does. Castle's curiosity has always been boundless; she remembers him touching things, asking questions he shouldn't have asked, and she knows it all links back to the same thing, this pathological need to know that pushed him to write crime novels in the first place just so he could make _sense_ of things.

It must kill him not to know. To be left wondering.

But telling him-

No. No.

Kate exhales slowly and sinks to the ground, skimming the sand with her fingers as she drops her forehead to her drawn-up knees. The sea ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows, the continuous beautiful sound washing over her, soothing her chest until breathing is easy again, until she can look up without tears.

No stars tonight, but the sky is a deep entrancing shade of blue, as if the clouds are reflecting the sea and not the reverse. She suddenly longs to have Rick at her side, his strong shoulder against hers, the magical words he would no doubt find to describe the moment. But if she wants that to happen - she's got a promise to make him first.

Maybe it's not that crazy, after all. All she needs is a small leap of faith; all she needs is to believe that one day, she'll feel good enough, healthy enough, to tell him everything. It's all he wants. To know that when she's ready, she'll let him in, let him see all the bruises and the pain and the ugliness.

Can't she at least give him that?

* * *

He scared her away. Great job, Castle.

He runs a hand down his face and closes the book he's been trying to read for the last half-hour. Poe's not really a good choice considering the circumstances, partly because he's too distracted to make it past first sentences like _In the consideration of the faculties and impulses – of the prima mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them, _and partly because Poe's writing, if he's honest, isn't exactly what he'd call cheerful.

Rick tilts his head back into the armchair and closes his eyes briefly, the soft light of his library encouraging his need for sleep. Today's been pretty intense, and his body's quietly letting him know that he's getting too old for this kind of excitement.

He'd be in bed already, if he wasn't worried about Kate.

He's not sure when he succumbs to slumber, but clearly he must have since the next thing he's aware of is the pressure of a hand on his shoulder startling him awake. "What-?" Oh. Kate. "Hey," he mutters, relaxing again.

"Hey, Castle." She looks at him, stunning in the half light, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "This doesn't look like a very comfortable position to sleep in."

"Hm?" He twists his neck and winces; when he sits up he can't help a groan at the blinding flash of pain in his back.

"You okay?" The smile is gone, actual concern darkening her eyes now. Rick is very aware of her hand at his shoulder, the way it radiates warmth down his arm.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, rubbing at his eye. Her hand's not moving. Mmm. That's nice.

"You should've gone to bed," she says, too soft for it to be a reproach.

He looks at her, tries to phrase this so she won't feel guilty. "So early?" he ends up joking. "What do you think I am, Beckett, an old man?"

She graces him with a ghost of a smile, but he knows she knows why he wouldn't have been able to sleep. Yeah. He's got his own issues to match hers. What a perfectly assorted couple they make.

"Look, about earlier-" he starts just as she says, "Rick, listen-"

They look at each other, the smiles genuine this time, and something eases in his chest. No matter what happens, it's still there. That connection between them. It's comforting.

"I'll go first," she says, her eyes calm and serious. "The only thing I can promise you, Castle, is that when - if - I feel comfortable enough with myself to share with you everything that happened in those two years, I will. And I know it might not seem like much, I know it might not be-"

"Kate," he cuts her off, covering her hand with his. She looks up in surprise, but she doesn't recoil. "That's - all I wanted." More than he hoped for, really. "Thank you." She looks at him with her eyebrows raised, and he realizes after a second what she's waiting for. "Oh, yeah. I promise not to open that package without your permission. Cross my heart, hope to die, all of it."

She snorts and shakes her head at him, but he can see the relief that lights up her face. She looks so lovely, sitting on the side table in his library, her body tilted close and intimate, that he can't keep himself from leaning in slowly, giving her more than enough time to pull back. When she doesn't their lips meet tentatively, a velvet touch that makes his heart pound; the caress of her fingers at his cheek echoes the delicate slide of her mouth, the warm press of her tongue.

He forgets everything. There's only the devastating reality of Kate Beckett against him, the staggering joy at being able to kiss her, hold her close. He still feels so damn grateful every time; he supposes it'll take a while for it to go away. Doesn't matter.

"I love you," he murmurs breathlessly when he abandons her lips, and she makes that soft sound that could be a laugh or a sob, rests her forehead to his.

"Castle," she whispers, and all he hears is _I love you too._


	20. Chapter 20

Emily Simmons looks from Kate to Castle, from Castle to Kate. Her chin rests on top of her hand; her face has that thoughtful expression that Beckett has come to trust completely. The pale winter sun hesitantly comes in through the window, touches her dark curls.

"Why do you want to destroy that package, Rick?" she asks finally, orienting her body to him.

Castle looks surprised at the question, probably because he thinks the answer is so obvious. "No good will come of it," he says, a little defensive. "What we need - what Kate needs - is to move forward, not backwards. Tyson is dead. This package is the last connection between him and us, and I think we should just sever it and be done. Be rid of him for good."

The therapist gives a short nod and turns her eyes to Beckett. "Kate?"

Right. This is unfair, she thinks; Castle's always been a lot better with words. "I don't think," she starts slowly, pauses. Shit, it's hard. "I don't think that envelope really makes a difference. Yes, it's visible, it's something we can touch, but..." she glances at Rick. "Our connection to Tyson doesn't end with it. I'd say it's just the tip of the iceberg."

"And you think the hidden part is worse than the section you can see."

Kate swallows. "Probably."

Emily leans back into her armchair. "Is that your only reason for wanting to hang on to that package, Kate?"

Ah. Beckett runs her tongue over her bottom lip, stares at the small bouquet on the coffee table. A fake, this one; it's been there for as long as they've known Emily. "No," she confesses on a sigh after a moment, lifting her head. "No, it's not."

There's a long silence, and although she knows she's expected to say more, she just - can't.

"Can you tell us what you're expecting to find in there?"

Not expecting so much as _hoping_. And hoping is a silly thing when it comes to Jerry Tyson. "I just-" Kate shakes her head. She doesn't have an answer to Emily's question. What is she hoping to find? Something to give her closure, something that would give those two years a meaning that she knows doesn't exist? "It's stupid."

"No, it's not." The woman's blue eyes crinkle with her encouraging smile, and seriously, Beckett's got no idea where Emily finds her patience.

Castle is quiet next to her, which is never a good sign, but Kate doesn't dare look at him. "Okay, um. It's gonna sound ridiculous, but I - Tyson - he made it feel like he liked me. Or well, _like_ is too strong a word, but at least - like he took some kind of interest in me, at times. When he showed me the pictures of Castle and Kyra, for example, he seemed indignant, like he couldn't believe Castle would do this to me. A lot of what he said had to do with me being better than Castle, too good for him, and Tyson kept insisting that I was better off without Rick, that he was my weakness, made me ordinary."

"So Tyson made it sound like he was on your side."

"Yes." Kate glances up at Emily, relief sparking in her chest.

"Do you think he was?"

That's a trick question if she ever heard one. "No," Beckett answers firmly. "If he'd been on my side, he would've let me out. Let me walk free. But he was - deranged - and I think maybe there's some tiny part of him that really did...like me, feel for me, I don't know."

"And maybe that's the part of him that wrote the letter, is that what you're saying?"

Kate shrugs, looks down at her hands. "Yeah."

"Would that help?" Emily asks knowingly. "Let's say that letter was written by the better part of him, that it has some sort of apology in it. Or an explanation. Would that help you, Kate?"

Castle huffs next to her, disbelief or maybe irritation. Beckett laces her fingers in her lap, remembers the long hours in the basement, the ache in her shoulders from sleeping with her wrists bound, Tyson barging in in the dead of night. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "Maybe."

"Seriously?" Castle's body twists towards her on the couch, but Kate keeps her eyes down.

"Rick," Emily warns, her voice ever gentle.

He takes a long breath like he's going to say something, but then he settles back into his corner of the couch, falls silent.

"Kate," the therapist says softly. "You're the one who spent two years with Tyson. You know him much better than we ever will. If you feel this way about the package, then I agree. You should keep it until you're ready to open it, or have someone open it for you. But I do have to warn you that it might have the opposite effect of what you're hoping for. It might drag you back down to that terrible place when you think you've finally escaped it. It's your choice to make."

Her choice to make. There's something about those words that is so very freeing, that makes her lungs and her whole body loosen in relief. "Yeah, I understand."

"It's a choice you might want to make together, the two of you," Emily suggests. "Since the consequences will affect you both."

Right. Kate sucks in a breath and finally cuts her eyes to Castle, finds him watching her with a complicated expression. Incomprehension, maybe, and some fear as well, and behind that a deep-seated loyalty that flips her heart. "Of course," she says, her mouth dry. "I'm not gonna open it if you don't want me to, Castle."

His lips curl upwards ever so slightly, and something eases in his eyes. "Well, sounds like we've got ourselves a deal," he says. She's never been so happy for the nudge of his knee against hers.

* * *

They agree to lock Tyson's envelope in Castle's safe. Kate wants it somewhere out of reach, some place she can't get to without pausing to think; Castle's only request is that he won't randomly open a drawer and stumble upon it.

So safe it is. Rick gives her the combination, 21-01-17, and she enters it before turning to him with a raised eyebrow. "Alexis's birthday, yours and mine? Could you make it any easier to crack, Castle?"

He grins, obviously more pleased that she remembers than worried at her words. "Haven't been robbed yet. Maybe you're giving too much credit to the thieves around here, Beckett."

She snorts and shakes her head at him, turns back to drop the package on top of a thick collection of pages that looks like a manuscript. Despite herself her eyes are drawn to the bottom of the safe, the barrel of a gun that emerges from the mess. Black and sleek and deadly.

She's reaching for it before she can even think, the cool sensation of metal so familiar under her palm. Her fingers curl naturally around the handle, find the trigger, and the feeling of power, of _right_ is overwhelming.

Wow.

She's been thinking a lot lately. Thinking about what she wants to do with her life, thinking about whether or not she's still a cop. Still _wants_ to be a cop. But shit, this - how it feels to have a gun in her hand again - it says more than she's ready for.

She's suddenly aware of Castle's eyes on her, his careful silence as he watches her handle the gun, and she puts it back in the safe, quickly shuts the door on it and on the breathless wonder at the pit of her stomach.

"Done," she says, twisting her mouth into the closest thing she can get to a smile. Castle's eyes linger on her face for a moment more, and she can see in those deep blue depths all the questions he refrains from asking.

* * *

Kate steps out of the shower and runs both hands through her hair, loving the way the shorter strands feel between her fingers. She tired herself out in the pool, pushed maybe a little farther than she should have, but still she feels good, so much better than she did a month ago. It's amazing to have her body respond to her commands, her legs stiff but nowhere near collapsing.

She slips on her underwear, her jeans, stops for a moment to look at her reflection in the mirror. The bruises are gone now, finally faded away, and Castle's insistence on rich, regular meals has already made a difference. The lines of her cheekbones are not as stark as they were, her ribs less prominent, and she skims her thumb over her navy lace bra, down her abdomen, stopping at her belly button.

The scars are still there. _Th__at_'s not going to change. They're thin and not that visible - Tyson's knife was sharp - but Beckett follows the lines with her fingertip, shivers at her own touch. She finds her eyes in the glass and assesses her own strength, the cool determination that shines in her irises.

Now's as good a time as it gets.

She grabs her shirt and slides it on with only the faintest ache at her shoulders, buttons it up as she pushes the door open with one foot, comes out of the bathroom. "Castle?"

He's not in the bedroom. She heads downstairs, checking his study, the library before she hears sounds coming from the living room. She finds him lounging on the couch, ankles crossed, a cushion held to his chest. On his luxuriously wide flat screen a period film is playing that she recognizes after a few seconds. _Pride and Prejudice, _huh?

"Oh, hey," he says, sitting up when he finally realizes she's here. "I, um-" he gestures towards the TV, that adorably embarrassed look on his face. "It was on, and I-"

"-was unable to resist the charm of Colin Firth. I understand, Castle. He's a very attractive man, and I'm sure you wouldn't be the first one to cross that line for him..."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You think you're so funny."

She lets her smile show, sits nonchalantly to the arm of the couch. "I'm pretty funny," she says on a shrug.

"Yeah you are," he agrees so quickly, like that he can't even pretend to argue that point.

It's impossible not to beam at him for that, and a little harder to remember why she was looking for him in the first place. Oh, right. That promise she made him.

He must see the seriousness in her eyes because the amusement drops off his face as well, and he reaches for the remote, silences Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy. "Something you wanted to talk about?"

Kate releases the breath trapped inside her lungs and lets herself sink to the couch next to him, tucking one of her legs under her. "Yeah. Yeah, I." She's always been so terrible with words, so instead she shows him, lifts her shirt to uncover her abdomen and the crisscross of scars. She hears the catch in his breath and lifts her eyes to him, can't tell exactly what that look is on his face. "I thought you might want to know the story behind the scars," she murmurs anxiously, like he would ever say no to a story of hers.

His eyes are brilliantly blue as he stares at her. "Yes," he says breathlessly, the eagerness in his voice doing things to her heart. "Yeah, if you want to - if you feel like-"

She reaches for his hand and guides it towards her belly, giving him unspoken permission to touch. He does, very gently, his fingers running over the scars, and she has to grit her teeth and keep herself still. It's a strange feeling, because as much as she yearns for his touch she also wants to jerk away, protect that sensitive, vulnerable part of her, and so she finds herself stuck somewhere in between.

Castle must feel it, because he flicks his eyes up at her face and withdraws his hand. She catches his fingers and holds them close, but lets her shirt down, her skin covered again.

"It must've hurt," he says, and she's grateful for that, for the way he gives her a place to start from.

"I was unconscious for some of it," she offers, as if that might be a comfort to him. His fingers clench briefly in hers, a shared thread of grief that travels between them, and she inches a little closer. "It was after the first time I tried to run away. Actually, it was the day Tyson came to see me with that article about you and Kyra. He was mad, got even madder when he realized _I_ wasn't, and I thought: this is my chance. The first he wasn't fully in control. So I waited until he came close and I headbutted him as hard as I could."

Castle chuckles and the sound pulls her back to him, to the flash of dark satisfaction, the _pride_ in his eyes. "Bet he wasn't too pleased about that."

"No," she agrees, squeezing his hand. "He wasn't. I'd spent the night working on my restraints though, so my legs were free and I just had to skirt him and run."

Rick sobers up, the pleasure gone from his face. "But he caught you."

"The rope around my wrists was really tight. Couldn't do anything about it, and believe me, I tried. That made it a lot harder to open doors or put up any kind of a fight, and the house was bigger than I'd expected. I managed to reach the kitchen, and then-" Her voice sticks in her throat, each word more reluctant to come out than the one before. "He got me on the floor, beat me up until I stopped struggling. Then he took me back to the cell and told me I was going to be punished. That it was what I deserved for betraying his _trust._" She snorts. Like Jerry Tyson ever trusted her.

"That's why he used the knife?"

She gives a single, sharp nod. "Tied me up again first. Just in case. And then he got the knife out." The worst thing wasn't even the pain. The worst thing was feeling Tyson's hands on her body, the creepy, clinical touch of his fingers. "He - undressed me. Said he didn't want to ruin the only clothes I had. The way he could be logical even when he was being a complete psychopath - that scared me more than anything else."

"Right there with you," Castle murmurs, his fingers laced tight with hers.

"He didn't - it was never - _sexual_, the way he looked at me. The way he touched me. It felt more like an experiment. Like he was curious about how other human beings felt things, reacted to them, and here I was. The perfect guinea pig." Maybe she shouldn't have shared this after all. She felt strong in the bathroom, calm and balanced, and now all of those awful feelings are resurfacing again, clawing at her chest.

"Kate."

She forces herself to breathe, push it all back, bury the rage and despair before she looks at him. "I'm okay."

"Like hell you are," he says, and he pulls her to him slowly, tugging her body into the cove, the shelter of his.

The words keep falling from her lips, unstoppable now. "And after - after he was done," she rasps, "he acted like he was sorry. Maybe he was a little. Didn't want his plaything getting too messed up, you know? So he untied me, carried me to the bathroom. Cleaned me up." She has her nose pressed to the crook of his neck now, and she feels every hitch of his breath, every painful swallow. But still, still, she can't make herself go silent. "He ran me a bath, offered to help wash the blood from my hair. And I wanted to say no, Castle, I wanted him to get the hell away from me, but I could hardly lift my arms and I needed so badly to have my hair washed, to feel clean again." God, she should never have told him this. The shame rises in her again, burning and terrible, and she wants to curl in on herself, hide, disappear.

She's drawing back before she even realizes, but Castle won't let her. He curls his hands around her wrists and tugs her back into him, his voice warm and soothing in her ear. "Hey, hey, Kate, it's okay. It's all right, Beckett. I got you."

Shit, she's crying. Despite her best efforts there's a tear rolling down her cheek, followed by another one, and it all comes tumbling out. "I let him touch me. I let him wash my hair because that bath - that bath was everything I wanted, and I - I let him - when I should have-"

"You did what you had to do to survive," he says, his lips moving against her hair. "No judgments here, Kate. You were probably half passed out from blood loss anyway; I'm surprised you remember it at all."

Remember is an understatement. The humiliation is so vivid, pulsing in her veins, and she grits her teeth against it.

"Let it go," he murmurs, the fingers of his left hand threading through her hair, circling entrancing patterns across her skull. "Let it go, Beckett. If that bath helped you hang on one more day, made a single minute of it more bearable, then it was worth it."

She breathes him in and lets it settle over her, the truth of his words, the strength of his embrace. After a moment she's finally able to loosen her death grip on his shirt, brush her lips over his collarbone in a quiet _thank you._

"You know," she says as lightly as she can, straightening up and meeting his gaze, "I could use a happy ending right about now. What do you say, Castle? You, me, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy?"

Admiration and love crinkle his eyes, knock the breath out of her. "I'll get the hot chocolate and the marshmallows," he says.

* * *

There are good nights and bad nights now. Sometimes - too often still, she admits to herself - the nightmares won't leave her alone and she'll wake breathless or screaming or crying, her body damp with sweat under the sheets and covers. Sometimes it helps to have Castle close; sometimes she just needs away from him.

But then there are the good nights. Nights when she doesn't dream, nights when she slips into slumber the moment her head touches the pillow, her exhausted body sinking into Castle's sinful mattress. Mornings when she wakes up fresh and rested and _herself, _when she just closes her eyes and stays in bed a moment longer because she can. Because there are no terrible memories to run from.

Today is one of those, and Kate stretches languorously against the sheets, rolls to where Castle's should be. She slits an eye open even as she feels for him, her fingers only meeting air. Hm. She's alone in their bed.

The morning light filters in through the curtains, makes a soft halo around his bedside table, and Kate lets her eyes drift closed again, takes a moment to revel in the quiet, pleased hum of her body. She rolls over until her face is pressed to his pillow and breathes in his scent, that delicious male Castle flavor. Her stomach rumbles loudly.

Right. Breakfast time.

She gives herself one more minute and then drags her sleepy ass out of bed, reaches for a sweater, the pair of leggings she keeps in the top drawer. No Castle when she wakes up generally means he's in the kitchen making breakfast for them, but she can't smell the coffee today. Weird.

Kate steps briefly into the bathroom, making sure her hair is not too much of a mess, and then she pads out quietly into the hallway. Taking the stairs is much easier now, only the faintest twinge in her thigh when her body is still stiff with sleep, and it's just habit that makes her rest a hand to the wall as she turns into the kitchen.

No Castle. There's cold coffee in the pot though; Kate flips the switch so it'll warm up, heads to the living room. Empty as well, but she can hear a light sound coming from the study. A sound much like the one made by fingers on a keyboard.

Beckett presses a palm to the sudden, ridiculous stutter of her heart and moves forward. The door is wide open, the room bathed in sunlight; she blinks a few times and then catches sight of him, sitting in one of the wide armchairs with his laptop balanced on his knees. He's turned away from her so she can only see a quarter of his face, but even that is enough for her to know - the intense set of his eyebrow, the pressed line of his mouth, the way he doesn't notice her at all.

His fingers move slower than she remembers, stay poised over the keys as he frowns at the screen, but still. Still.

He's writing again.

Kate stands at the door with her fingertips pressed to her mouth, as if they could ever contain the wild joy that floods her, the gratitude that thrashes in her chest. He's not broken; not even Tyson, not even two years thinking she was dead have beaten the words out of him. The words that saved her life.

She retreats on tiptoe before he can see her, a breathless laugh rippling in her throat; she feels lighter than she has in months.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** Sorry about the delay, guys. I've been traveling in the UK and finding time to write is harder than I thought.

* * *

Castle heaves a deep sigh and blinks, coming back to the world as he closes the word document and pulls his laptop shut. He's not sure what exactly he just wrote. It could be the first scene to the next Nikki Heat, could be something utterly unpublishable. Could be crap for all he knows. Two years without writing have made him self-conscious to the extreme, and typing that scene was a constant struggle with the sneering voice in his mind.

Nothing new there, he thinks as he stands up, works his stiff arms. He's had long stretches of writer's block before; he knows the feeling.

He checks his watch, is only half surprised to see it's almost eleven. He's gotta shower and get dressed, but first - first, he's going to find Kate.

She can't possibly be in bed this late. Nope. If he knows her at all, she'll have gotten up some time back, probably come out here to see what he was up to. He didn't hear her, but then again when he writes he doesn't hear much of anything.

He checks the kitchen first - empty - then hunts for her upstairs, tries the bathroom, their bedroom, the guest rooms one after the other.

Huh. No trace of Beckett.

He goes back down, that tight feeling in his chest. _Don't be stupid. _He probably just missed her; she was reading on the veranda and she didn't hear him, and now he's going to find her and feel like an idiot for-

But she's not there either. And he _is _dead to the world when he writes. Enough so that he could miss somebody getting inside the house - somebody taking her? No. No, come on. It's ridiculous. She's getting better; she would've fought back, called for him. He would've heard. _Surely _he would have heard.

"Kate!" He calls, looking around for a note, something. She leaves him notes when she goes out without him. But there's nothing on the kitchen table, nothing in the living room, nothing in his study.

Shit.

He's being silly. He's being silly and getting worked up over nothing, but what if she was right – what if Tyson really did fake his death again, and then came back for her? Fuck, no. He has to wrestle back a wave of nausea as he runs to the French door, yanks it open. "Kate!"

It's cold outside. It's freezing, in fact, and he's barefoot, but still he steps out with his arms crossed over his chest, his teeth chattering. "Kate?"

Oh, the pool. He hasn't checked the pool. A hysterical laugh builds in his chest – surely that's where she is, surely he's going to find her slicing through the water with her usual grace – and he jogs around the house, stumbling a few times because his feet are numb.

He knows even before he can catch a glimpse of the smooth, still water. She's an energetic swimmer; if he were right he'd be able to hear splashes, hear the steady rhythm of her strokes. But there's only silence. He stops by the side of the pool, breathless, his momentum crushed along with his last hope.

It's gotta be a dream, one of those ugly dreams that still haunt him; he's going to wake up. He's going to wake up and find Kate next to him, _please_ _let it just be a dream please-_

"Castle?"

He whips around with a sob stuck in his throat, strides up to her, his fingers touching her shoulders, her neck, her hips before he crushes her to his chest. She's real, she's real and nothing else matters and _Thank you God thank you._ If he could meld their bodies, if he could take her into himself and carry her with him always-

"Castle, I'm having a little trouble breathing here."

Oh, right. He releases his hold at once, stepping back, and although his lungs are working again he can still taste the dark edge of despair in his mouth. "Shit, Beckett, you can't _do that._"

She raises her eyebrows, a defensiveness in her eyes that makes him want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she understands. "What are you talking about?"

"You can't leave the house without-" he sucks in a breath through his nose, tries to lower his voice. He won't get anywhere by yelling at her. "I thought we'd agreed to leave each other notes when we're stepping out. I didn't find one, and I got - worried." He only sounds a tiny bit pathetic. Not that he cares.

Kate presses her lips together. "Castle, I did leave you a note," she says gently, as if she thinks he's having a mental breakdown. "On the coffee table."

Coffee table? No. No. There was nothing there; he checked.

Or did he?

"Did you even look before you went into full panic mode?" The soft reproach in her voice is just - more than he can take.

"Yeah, actually, I did," he snaps. "I searched the whole fucking house for you, Kate, but I couldn't find you or that supposed note and I think with everything that happened you should know better than just leaving me-"

His words die in his mouth when she produces her phone from her pocket. "You could've just called me," she says, her eyes trained knowingly on his face.

Ah. He didn't - he didn't think of that.

His silence is as good as an admission, and there's a flash of sorrow across her face as she slips the phone back in her coat's pocket, reaches out for him.

He moves back.

He doesn't want her pity, doesn't want to be consoled. He wants to cling to his righteous anger and pretend for a moment longer that the feeling is justified. That he's not just losing his mind.

Beckett straightens her shoulders and frowns at him, opens her mouth to say something - he'll never know what, because right then there's a particularly nasty gust of wind and he shivers from head to toe, his thin cotton clothes doing nothing to protect him. She narrows her eyes. "This conversation is not over, Castle. But we're going to go inside now before you get pneumonia and I have to drag your sorry ass to the ER. And if you say no to me I will knock you out and drag you back into the house myself."

He _does_ feel like protesting, but she's been going to her PT sessions pretty regularly and he thinks she'd be able to make good on her threat. So he swallows his pride, grits his teeth, and he leads the way back inside.

* * *

Castle ruffles his still-wet hair and leans into the kitchen doorframe, watching the ripple of muscle in Kate's back as she stirs something in a pan. It smells good, like tomato and garlic and something else, he thinks, but he's not sure what.

When they came back earlier she nearly pushed him in the shower, commanded him to warm up; he has to admit that he feels a lot better now, fresh clothes on, his body loosened by the hot water. But inside - inside his gut is still churning.

Over something that didn't happen. Was never going to happen.

What is wrong with him?

"Well don't just stand there, Castle," Kate says without turning. "Come give me a hand."

He smiles to himself – ever the detective – and moves forward, his heart eased by the way she includes him. "What're you making?"

"For me to know," she answers, flashing him that clever look that he loves. "Can you grab those carrots and wash them for me?"

"Yes m'am," he says, and even though she doesn't exactly turn to him he gets a vivid impression of her amusement. He does what he's told and then gets a chopping board out along with a knife. "I'm guessing the next thing I should do is slice them up."

"Your guess is accurate." The sound of that word in her mouth, all throaty consonants, is just plain dirty.

He takes in a deep breath and ignores the twitch in his pants, focuses on keeping his fingers whole. They work side by side in a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional instruction, and then Kate layers one preparation over the other in a dish, grates cheese on top. He watches curiously, catches himself before he can ask where she got that recipe. He doesn't want to be the one to break their silent truce.

She pushes the dish into the oven and closes the door, stands up again. Her eyes meet his with a seriousness that says it's time for their talk. "Feeling better?" she asks with a little arch of her eyebrow.

He gives her a rueful smile. "Yeah."

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a small piece of paper that she holds up between two fingers. He takes it gingerly. "What's that?"

"My supposed note," she says, indicating quotation marks with her fingers. "I guess the wind must've swept it off the table when I went out. I found it on the floor." She doesn't say anything else, but he hears it anyway: _on the floor _isn't _under the couch._ If he'd been less panicked, had kept his brain from jumping to conclusions, he would probably have found it.

He traces her handwriting with the flat of his thumb and sighs. "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off at you like that."

Her fingers wrap gently around his, stall his next words. He looks up and is amazed again at the richness, the depth of her eyes. "I don't want you to be sorry, Castle. This isn't about me - this is about you. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

He opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say.

"Please talk to Dr. Simmons about it. You know I'm right. I can't – this isn't okay. I shouldn't worry about your reaction every time I go somewhere on my own. And you can't just freak out every time I'm out of your sight. It's gotta be exhausting, Rick."

Yeah. It's not exactly like he can turn it off, but faced with her anxious, expectant face, he can't do anything but nod his acquiescence. "Yeah. I - yeah. You're right. I know."

She worries her bottom lip, flicks her eyes down before she drags them back up to his. "Castle. You don't have to carry that fear around like you're ashamed of it. I have those too, you know."

He pulls her to him, partly because he needs the warm reality of her body, partly because her tender, hesitant look is breaking his heart. She comes easily, nudges the line of his jaw with her nose, brushes her lips to the spot under his ear. "Remember," she murmurs. "Happened to both of us. Not just me."

"Not just you," he echoes obediently, but his throat closes up when he thinks of her tied to a bed, Tyson's knife dripping with her blood. It's just so hard sometimes to keep in mind that they're both victims in their own way.

She's long and lithe and perfect against him, her arms around his waist, her breaths caressing his neck; he grips her a little tighter than he should, a sudden stinging at his eyes. "If I lose you again," he starts, can't help himself, but then her hand is in his hair, her palm at his nape, a steady pressure that relieves the deep ache in his chest.

"Don't go there," she says, so fierce in her love. "I'm here now, Castle. Right here with you."

"I love you," he chokes out, and then he kisses her because the words are not enough - because nothing will ever be enough.

* * *

Kate balances the laptop on her thighs and then reaches for the cup that she perched on the arm of the couch, takes a careful sip. Castle's machine makes delicious coffee, dark and with so much flavor; she hums in appreciation as she lets it roll down her throat.

Keeping the cup cradled in one hand, she waits for the screen to light up and then finds the internet browser icon, clicks on it.

Castle is out shopping. He asked her to come along - whined for her to come along, really - but she went running this morning and she can still feel it in her legs. And of course his plaintive tone did nothing to convince her.

She sips on her coffee and then sets the cup down cautiously, freeing her hands so she can type. _Manhattan apartment for rent._

A bunch of websites immediately comes up and she sifts through them, skipping the ones mentioning roommates and holiday rentals. She pulls up the more interesting ones, starts filling the search criteria without thinking. Then she realizes she's describing her old apartment and sighs, tries to be more flexible as she goes through the form again.

She probably won't be able to find another place like her old one. Her rent wasn't exactly cheap, but considering the location and the amount of space she had - it was a very decent deal. And she loved the raw look of it, the exposed beams. Ah, well. She'll take what she can get.

Kate grabs the notebook and pen that she bought at the nearby bookstore and she starts making notes about possible rentals. She likes that part, the looking and comparing and narrowing down her options, and she's still very much absorbed in it when she hears the front door open.

The sound takes a second to register. She looks up and instinctively closes notebook, browser and laptop, nearly spills her coffee as she pushes herself off the couch.

"I'm back!" Castle announces brightly from the hallway, and Beckett grabs her cup and goes to meet him.

She finds him in the kitchen, storing more food in the fridge that they can eat in a week. He looks more relaxed than earlier though, the restlessness gone from his eyes, so she refrains from commenting. When he's done he turns to her with that easy smile of his, and he steps in close for a kiss.

She lets him have it, startled, but the moment his tongue darts past her lips she's lifting up against him, a hum caught in her mouth, her arm snaking around his neck.

"Mmm, coffee-flavored. I like," he grins into her lips before he breaks away, leaves her breathless and wanting. He strokes his thumb to her mouth, his eyes a deep, tender blue. "I wanna take you out," he says.

Out? "What, like a date?"

"Like a date," he confirms, looking pleased with himself. It's ridiculous the way her insides flip. "There's this cute little Greek restaurant I passed on the way back - it's only been there for two years and I'm dying to try it. Think about it, Beckett. Lamb, moussaka, that delicious wine I forget the name of, you in that green dress-"

And she's supposed to dress up. Um. Okay. Part of her wants to tell him he doesn't have to do this, doesn't need to seduce her when she's already in love with him, but he seems so-

Happy. And a little nervous too, but it's been a while since she's seen him in such a good mood. Kate presses her lips together, gives him a smile. "Sounds good."

He beams back at her. "Excellent. Meet me at the door in an hour then." She must look surprised because he adds, "I know it doesn't look like it, but Beckett - all that rugged handsomeness takes time."

She breathes out a laugh, shaking her head at him, and her stomach flutters - anticipation or apprehension, it's hard to tell.

* * *

Her bras all look weird with the dress. Her hair refuses to do what she wants. She can't manage to tug the zipper all the way up.

Beckett growls at her reflection and spins around, flops down on the bed. Phantom pain flickers in her thigh. Great. Just great. She closes her eyes and gives herself a minute to wholeheartedly hate Castle - he's the one responsible for all this, buying her a dress, asking her out like they're goddamn teenagers. Then she takes a deep breath and slowly sits up.

She can do this. She's not going to let Jerry Tyson win. No way.

So her hair is too short - she will just let it loose, maybe pin a few strands up. Yes. That will work nicely. Next is the deep v neckline of the dress, the way it uncovers the old bullet scar. She carefully dabs foundation onto the uneven skin, examines herself in the mirror from different angles. It doesn't show that much; in fact she'll probably be the only one to notice.

Good. Kate does her make-up, resolutely ignoring the fact that she'll have to ask Castle to zip her up - he's probably going to love that anyway. The bathroom light falls gently on her face, a little too flattering maybe, but it's what she needs right now. She gives a strained smile to her reflection and it makes her realize how tense she is.

Jeez. Relax, Beckett. It's only a date.

With Castle. A date with Castle.

Why does she feel like the stakes are so high? He loves her, and she loves him. There are no obligations here, nothing for her to be worried about. Annoyed with herself, Kate turns to the closet and grabs the elegant black coat they bought together a couple weeks ago. The rich, heavy fabric makes her feel beautiful, but she stills when her eyes land on her bare feet.

Shit, shoes. She doesn't have heels. Oh, there are the boots Castle got for her - but they've got such small heels, not exactly the sexy kind, and they'll never go with the dress anyway. Crap.

She opens the closet wide, her gaze roaming the shelves desperately as if shoes will miraculously appear out of nowhere, and that's when she notices the grey box that sits on the bottom shelf. The grey box that she hasn't seen before - the grey box that wasn't here yesterday.

He didn't-?

He did.

Kate drops the lid of the box on the floor and carefully, reverently lifts out a dark green pump with a slim ankle strap.

Gorgeous.

Those are killer heels, and her legs are going to hurt after a few minutes in them. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because the moment she slips her feet inside, ties the straps and takes a breathless step, she feels like Detective Kate Beckett again.

And Castle.

Castle knew.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N:** Wow, sorry about that long wait. I'm back home now and I will be doing a much better job of updating over the next few weeks. Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement, guys. I'm truly grateful.

* * *

The Greek restaurant is lovely. Sure, the design is a little tacky, the white walls covered in fake vine – and occasionally fake grapes - but their waiter is possibly the nicest person on the planet, and the food is to die for.

Kate spends most of dinner with her eyes closed in pleasure, her calf pressing to Castle's under the table every time she stifles a moan. He's very handsome tonight. His blue shirt brings out his eyes and his smile is easy, relaxed, no trace of concern on his face. He looks younger, and yet so different from the cocky bestselling novelist whose party she crashed.

She sees so much more in him now than she did then. It's almost miraculous.

She reaches for her glass of wine and he does the same; their fingers brush, linger, little flashes of heat that Kate can feel down to her toes. The bright unexpected surge of want leaves her breathless, and when she looks over at him he's smiling, rich and tender.

She almost speaks then. Her mouth parts, but words won't form in her brain – and what would she say anyway? There's no need for words, not when she's got the delicious buzz of the wine running through her veins, the exotic smell of the food on her plate, the promise that shines on Castle's face.

No need for words at all.

* * *

Kate kicks off her shoes the moment they step inside the house, her bare feet padding on the carpet. She's so graceful - the most graceful woman he's ever seen, tipsy or not - and he takes off his coat slowly as he follows her into the living room, his eyes never straying from her slim form.

The dress looks gorgeous on her. The dark green fabric clings to her shoulders and chest and hips, makes her eyes so deep and luminous, and he just-

He wants to kiss her. It's a combination of several things, an evening spent looking at her in the restaurant's soft light, the low, comforting tones of her voice when she spoke in the car, the loose tingle of the wine in his extremities; he's finding it hard – so hard – to resist.

He's done a good job until now, taking the kisses she'd give and refraining from asking for more, sitting at a safe enough distance on the couch so? that he'd feel her warmth but not actually touch her. He's been good, really good, but tonight for some reason his control is just…gone.

So when she spins around and snakes her arms around his neck, pushes her warm mouth to his, he simply can't not kiss her back, can't not press his body to the lithe line of hers. She's a little ruthless, her teeth nipping and her nails digging into the back of his neck; Castle staggers back in surprise, too much, too soon. It's been over two years since the last time he got to touch her like this, two years since they stood in the dark with that beautiful knowledge strung tight between them, and he's having a difficult time adjusting to the sudden shift of things. The couch is behind him, closer than he expected, and when he loses his balance Kate goes with him, lands on his lap with her teeth at his throat. It makes his eyes slam shut, his hips jerk without his say.

Not good. _Not good_. They have to talk about this. They've only had two months of therapy – she hasn't told him everything yet, he's sure of it, and they have to – they have to-

But her smooth, cool fingers slide under his shirt, making him shiver and find her mouth again, forget about everything else. She's everything he fell in love with in that moment, fierce and passionate and taking what she wants, so of course he forgets himself and kisses her more intently than he should, lets the edge of despair guide his tongue into her mouth, his fingers at her back and fumbling for her zipper.

He can't find it, gives up, drops his hands to her thighs instead. Their bodies are so close, so intimately intertwined – her tongue somewhere down his throat by that point – that he feels the exact moment when she freezes: a split second after he's hiked up the fabric of her dress, skimmed the line of her underwear with his thumb. He feels the way her mouth opens against his, the startled gasp she lets out, and then she's pushing away from him at once, stumbling back. "No," she says, and the dark rasp in her voice is not arousal. "No."

In her panic she walks into the coffee table, collapses on top of it. He winces at the harsh sound of her body crashing into solid oak wood, lifts a hand to help - and the way she recoils from him drives a sharp nail into his heart.

Her eyes are dark and wide, that tipsy sparkle long gone, and the white column of her neck moves when she swallows. For a long moment they just stare at each other, Beckett's face so angry and desperate that he has to remind himself to breathe, and then he fists his hand over his thigh. "Kate," he says, the words grating at his throat. "It's okay. It's just me. It's okay."

She huffs and breaks eye contact, shakes her head. "I know," she rasps. "I_ know_." The tight line of her jaw makes him anxious.

"Everything's okay," he repeats slowly. "We're good. We don't have to – we shouldn't rush into this. You've been through a lot. I just want you to be okay, Beckett; it's the only thing that matters to me."

"I want you." The words come through her gritted teeth, almost a growl. "I want this. Castle, I-"

"It's okay," he murmurs, chancing the brush of his fingers over her knee. This time she doesn't flinch, but cants closer; she sits up straight and her forehead comes to rest against his. "We'll take our time. No rush."

Her thumb skims his chin, a sigh falling from her lips. "I hate this."

"I know." He stays quiet for a few beats, drinking in the feather-light touch of her fingers, and then he simply has to say it. "I love you, Kate."

He's barely spoken the words that he already knows it was a mistake. She breaks away from him with a breathy, bitter laugh that breaks his heart, and she stands up and strides away before he can even try to stop her.

He listens to her footsteps as she disappears into the hallway, hears the wooden stairs creak under her feet, and he wishes he didn't know better than to go after her.

* * *

She's not going to share Castle's bed tonight. It's not that she doesn't want to - oh God, she does, she does - but it's not fair to taunt him with her nearness when she's not going to do anything about it.

When she can't make love to him.

Kate cradles her knees to her chest and bites hard into her bottom lip. The sobs make it out anyway; all she can do is muffle them so Castle won't hear.

Once she's exhausted all the tears in her body, she lifts from the bathroom floor and washes her face slowly. She strips down to her underwear and tiptoes into the guest room, peels off the comforter so she can lie between the soft, clean sheets. Then she curls onto her side and reaches out to turn the light off. For a second everything is pitch black, a deep, soothing darkness that envelopes her until her eyes adjust and register the wan glow of the moon shining off the bedside table, the hardwood floor.

She forgot to close the curtains.

Well, too bad. She's not getting up again. Kate rolls to her other side and closes her eyes, waits for sleep to come to her.

It takes a while.

* * *

They're doing individual sessions with Dr. Simmons this week. Emily thought it would help them both to have some one-on-one time with her, so the next morning Kate finds herself wandering through the empty house, Castle's absence at once an anomaly and a relief.

It's raining heavily outside. She'd normally go for a run or a walk on the beach, but the thought of getting drenched in thirty seconds isn't that tempting. Especially when she only had about five hours of sleep last night.

The sky and the sea are the same plain, gloomy shade today, so Kate turns away from the window and heads to Castle's study. She knows now which watercolor hides Rick's safe behind it; she takes a moment to notice the subtle way the artist has used every nuance at their disposal, the rich stormy grey of the waves reflecting the cloudy sky, the bold dash of yellow in the middle that is a tiny boat's sail.

Then she reaches for the painting and takes it down, resting it on the desk. The safe's combination is the same; the lock clicks happily under her sure fingers, and the door opens silently onto Castle's mess. Kate's detective training makes her want to inventory everything, flip through the files and the enticing collection of pages, but she pushes back her curiosity and goes for the one thing she wants.

The gun is just as cool and smooth as she remembers under her palm. Beckett inhales through her nose and takes the weapon out of the safe, her eyes catching for a second on the brown edge of Tyson's envelope.

But no. She pushes the safe door closed and focuses on the gun in her hands, lifting it and pointing it to the shelves that cover the opposite wall. The sensation of familiarity is overwhelming. Everything floods her at once, images of every thug she's pointed her gun to, memories of the people she actually shot, and more than anything else - that clarity that always settled over her, the sense of responsibility that was her favorite part of the job.

Being a cop was about more than her mother's murder. That was the initial push, yes, the reason she ever considered joining the Academy in the first place, but something had happened in between, something that made her love what she did and wasn't connected to her mom's death. The purpose, the drive it gave her - doing the right thing, catching the bad guys, providing answers for those who had been left behind - that was invaluable to her. The job had been her only anchor at a time when she'd so desperately needed one, and she'd poured her soul into it.

It was her. It_ is_ her, even now when it's forever tangled with Tyson and the heavy price she's had to pay for it.

She can never not be a cop, can she?

Kate breathlessly lowers the gun, rests it against her thigh.

Okay.

Well. At least this she can do something about.

* * *

Castle waits in Dr. Simmons's office, fingers tapping against his knee, reviewing the events of last night. Kate acted like everything was fine this morning. She smiled and chatted and pushed him out of the door when he didn't want to leave – but he saw the purple shadows under her eyes, the sluggish way she moved around the kitchen.

He didn't ask if she'd had bad dreams. He doubts she'd tell him the truth.

"Hi, Rick. Sorry about the wait." Dr. Simmons comes around the armchair to shake his hand, her face more troubled than he's ever seen her. "An old patient of mine was on the phone with an emergency and I just had to do everything I could to help."

"Of course," he says, surprised that she would even explain this much. "I hope everything's all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. It should be." The clouds in her blue eyes linger still, but she shakes her head. "Anyway. We're here to talk about you, not about me."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Castle offers.

Emily laughs and gives him a knowing look. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? Getting me to talk so that you won't have to do it."

Castle grins at her. "The thought didn't even cross my mind."

"I'm sure." She sits in her customary armchair and leans back into the seat, watching him. "So. How are you doing today, Rick?"

He hesitates for a split second and immediately berates himself for it. "I'm good." Dr. Simmons lifts her eyebrows at him and says nothing. The silence hangs between them until he surrenders. "Last night," he starts, stops. This is all so private. Yeah, he might have a way with words – fictional words – but expressing his own feelings is a completely different matter.

Facts, Rick. Stick to the facts. "Last night I took Kate out on a date."

Emily smiles. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. Did you have a good time?"

He's not expecting that question. "I – yeah. I had a great time, actually. We went to that Greek restaurant, you know, the one on Main Street? The food's amazing; I'd definitely recommend it. And it was nice to just-" he's not sure how to finish that sentence, but Dr. Simmons is looking at him, waiting. "To do something normal, I guess. Something we did…before."

She nods, tilts her head. "Did Kate seem to enjoy herself?"

The image of Beckett flashes before his eyes, the way she looked last night, soft and relaxed, the dark sweep of her lashes against her cheeks as she took a bite of souvlaki. "I think so," he says, remembering with a pang the feel of her lips pressed to his, the arch of her body.

The therapist's voice startles him out of his own mind. "What happened after the restaurant, Rick?"

"I'm sorry?" How does she even-

"You say you had a good time at dinner yet you seem upset. The logical conclusion would be that something happened after the restaurant that made you uncomfortable, or angry. Or sad. So which one is it?"

Saying more feels like betraying Kate, but they've had this conversation before – all three of them. It's not a betrayal to discuss the other with the therapist; it's what they need to do right now, the only way towards progress and a mutual understanding. Guilt has no place here. "When we got home we, ah - we started kissing. And we'd kissed before – I mean, since she's been back – so it's not like that was new, but this time felt…different. More intense. And I thought maybe Kate wanted-" He can't finish that sentence. He's not even looking at Dr. Simmons, but his tongue is stuck. Useless.

"To have sex?" the therapist suggests, completely matter-of-fact.

Right. That. "Yeah. And I thought we should talk about it first, that it was happening too fast, but Kate was – determined – and I just-"

"You're only human," Dr. Simmons says, her voice so wonderfully devoid of judgment. "What happened next?"

"I, um. I slid my hand under her dress and she froze. Broke away. She said no and she sounded so very…" Angry. And scared. He doesn't want to think about what it might mean.

"And then?"

He raises his eyes to Emily, swallows. "She just walked out of the room. She didn't come to bed with me. She slept in one of the guest rooms and this morning she pretended like everything was fine." He grits his teeth.

"Well, maybe she _was_ feeling better. You have to remember that you and Kate have very different ways to cope, Rick. Kate deals with her issues internally; she doesn't feel the need to talk things over like you do."

He gapes at her. "That's not what I – I'm only worried that-"

"I know," she says, lifting a pacifying hand. "I know what it looks like. I know it's hard for you not to jump to conclusions. But you also have to remember that Kate is a strong woman. She said no last night, and that's amazing. Means she knows her limits, and that you have to trust her with this. She promised you she would tell you everything that'd happened to her, didn't she?"

Castle presses his mouth together. "Yeah."

"Just give it time. It's simple advice, but it's probably the best I can give right now. And brace yourself," Dr. Simmons adds with a small smile, a lift of her eyebrow. "You might have to resist another attack. Knowing Kate, I'm sure she wants to get back to normal as soon as she can. And that normal includes a healthy sex life."

Shit, she's making him blush. He clears his throat and tries to look manly, but there's nothing to be done. His cheeks burn as if he were fifteen again and asking Laura Lovett to dance with him. "Yeah, I'll, uh, I'll deal with that," he says, and at least – unlike that unfortunate dance invitation – this doesn't end with him sprawled on the floor.

* * *

The rain has finally stopped when he makes his way back to the house. He had a text from Kate about half an hour ago, letting him know she was going for a run, so he's not surprised when he opens the door and silence greets him. He's been thinking in the car, about them, about last night, about the look on her face. Dr. Simmons's right: Beckett doesn't like for things to resist her, and the last thing he wants is her being mad at herself for not being able to - what, satisfy him?

That's ridiculous. He's perfectly satisfied by just having her here, and being able to talk to her and hold her close. Sex is a bonus that he's not even - okay, was not even - concerned about until she tried to jump him last night.

Rick hangs his coat in the closet and sighs, runs a hand down his face. What he needs... What he needs is a way to let her know that he doesn't care, that he'll wait for her. And that in the meantime he will treasure any memory that she feels comfortable enough to share with him.

Huh. Speaking of which.

He pauses in the hallway, tilts his head as he considers his newly-born idea. Yeah. That could work. She would like that. Maybe.

It's worth a try, he decides, and he heads for the stairs, already busy with the mental inventory of the props he will need.

* * *

She runs for two full hours and nearly collapses with exhaustion when she gets back to the house. It feels so good though. The harsh pound of her heart against her ribs, the riot of her breath, the continued protest of her thigh - makes her feel sharply alive. She's sort of expecting Castle to be keeping watch, anxiously awaiting her return, but there's no sign of him as she opens the French door and steps inside the hallway.

Well, good. She certainly doesn't want him to be hanging on her every move.

"Castle?" she calls. "I'm back." The place is strangely silent and she checks her phone, but there are no texts from him. He must be around here somewhere.

She's heading to his study when she hears a muffled sound upstairs, followed by his garbled voice. _Coming,_ she thinks he said, but she's already halfway through the stairs by the time her brain makes sense of it. She reaches the upper floor and nearly walks into him, the two of them holding on to the other to keep their balance.

"Hey," she says, breathless from the run or maybe from his touch. He looks nervous, jittery, but his face eases when she smiles at him and brushes her fingers to his wrist. "What are you doing up here? Did I interrupt your nap or something?"

"No, no. I, uh, I was just..." He seems so uncomfortable that she narrows her eyes and glances past him at the bedroom door.

"What are you hiding, Castle?"

The panic that flashes across his eyes is almost comical. "Nothing. Nothing. I think we should just, you know, go back downstairs and have some coffee and-" He's fumbling for words and experience has taught Beckett that an incoherent Richard Castle is never a good sign. She skirts him and goes for the bedroom, expecting - what? What is she expecting? - but the space is the same as it was this morning, no extravagant gift on display, no blonde pretending to be a professional masseuse. Kate glances back at Castle's hesitant face, and on her next intake of air she notices the rich scent surrounding her, a melange of vanilla and some exotic fruit.

Oh. She walks towards the bathroom, her eyes still on him, and pulls the door open. The smell spills out, much stronger here, and she sees that Castle's amazing drop-in bathtub is filled with water and bubbles and - are those flowers?

They are. Tiny purple flowers scattered at the surface, lit-up candles placed on the floor at a safe distance from the tub, a book and an elegant glass of wine resting on the small wooden stool. Her chest tightens painfully as she squats down, runs a light finger over the hardcover. _Frozen Heat._

Rick's voice breaks her stunned silence. "I thought maybe you'd like to read it again," he says quickly, like he's embarrassed. "Seeing as I'm writing the next one and the first draft is almost finished. But of course you can pick anything else you want-"

"Castle." She stands up slowly. "Why are you so nervous about this?" It's - God, it's amazing. She hasn't had a bath since that time with Tyson, and she's been wary of trying it again, but this-

It's perfect.

Her reaction must show on her face, because his shoulders relax visibly. "I thought it was a good idea for the first twenty minutes," he admits with a grudging smile. "But then I started imagining all the ways it could go wrong and I guess if you'd come home even ten minutes later it would probably have all disappeared by then."

"Well I'm glad I didn't," she says softly, and she bridges the gap between them so she can kiss his cheek, wrap her arms around his waist.

"Really?" The uncertainty in his voice makes her close her eyes.

"Really, Castle." She hugs him a little tighter until she feels his arms around her, the press of his cheek against her temple. "This is very possibly the sweetest thing anybody's ever done for me. And the most meaningful too."

His warm sigh tickles at her neck and she gives it a few more seconds before she steps back and looks at him. There's relief swimming in his blue eyes, and so much love that she's not sure what to do with it. She studies the bath, the bubbles, the candlelight, and she arches an inviting eyebrow at him. "Care to join me?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "Nope. It's your treat. Your own time. I'll be writing, or maybe stepping out to do some shopping, actually. I found this awesome recipe online, a Moroccan way to cook lamb, and I have all the vegetables that are supposed to go with it but without the lamb it might not taste quite..." She cuts him off with her mouth on his, no more than a caress, her fingers trailing down his jaw.

"Thank you." Her throat is so tight it's a wonder the words even make it out.

"It's nothing," he whispers. Silly man. She nips on his bottom lip for that and delights in his responsive little gasp.

"Not nothing," she says fiercely. He steps back, looks at her so intently that her stomach flips.

"I will - go now," he says, gesturing at the door. His voice is low and strained and lovely and she thinks maybe if she just kissed him again- "Shout if you need me." She barely has time to blink that he's already gone, the door closing behind him, and she's left alone with that simmering desire pooled in her gut.

_I do need you._


	23. Chapter 23

He wakes up and she's not in their bed. She's not in any of the other bedrooms, or the bathroom, or the kitchen.

He curls his toes against the cold hardwood floor and holds his breath while he counts back from ten. It helps; he's really gotten the hang of it now.

Right. No note, so she probably hasn't gone far. It's pretty early for him, actually - seven in the morning, and he often sleeps in until nine or ten. Makes sense that she wouldn't expect him to be up so soon. He goes back upstairs, glances down at the beach through the bedroom's window, and sure enough, she's there.

Huddled on the shore, arms around her knees, her slim figure clad in dark clothes. It must be freaking cold - mid-January, come _on_ - and yet she's not moving. Just sitting there, staring at the ocean.

He tears his eyes from the solitary vision and heads for his closet, picks random clothes that he pulls on without paying attention. She seemed okay last night, he thinks; she kept teasing him as she ate his food, and then cuddled with him on the couch. He remembers the feel of her body against his, warm and loose, intoxicating.

He grabs his sneakers and pushes his feet into them, jogs downstairs without bothering with the laces. His coat and scarf are where he left them, thrown over the back of an armchair, and he puts them on as he steps outside, slides the French door shut behind him.

It _is _cold - even more so coming from the house. Castle buries his hands in his pockets and ducks his head, his chin digging into the soft woollen scarf. No breeze, at least, but he walks briskly in Kate's direction, slowed down only by the sand's give under his shoes.

He flops down gracelessly next to her, making enough noise that he's sure she's aware of him. She doesn't turn, keeps her eyes on the gentle wash of the waves, but of course he can't look anywhere but at her. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair in a loose bun at her nape, and the grey morning is reflected in her eyes. A few strands of hair have escaped and fringe the long curve of her neck, the deep chestnut contrasting with her pale skin.

A model for a painting. The light is dim, washes away all colors but light and dark; the lines of Kate's beauty stand out in a sharp, breathtaking way.

He sits silent and humbled until she turns her face to him and smiles. Her eyes grow warm and the faraway look slides off her: in the space of a moment she's his partner again, his friend, the love of his life, and not that mysterious woman that Hopper might have asked to sit for him.

"Hey," she says, her body listing into his until their shoulders touch. He likes that very much, her brushed good morning, and he cranes his neck so he can feather his lips at her temple, feel the smoothness of her skin.

"Hi," he says back, can't help a silly smile. She does that to him. "You looked a little lonely out here. I thought I would join."

She makes that soft sound that he loves, sways back to rest her cheek on her knee. She's still looking at him, still so close, and yet he misses the warmth of her at his side.

"I love it here in the morning," she says, her voice nearly lost in the waves' murmur. "So peaceful. Just me and the ocean."

"You mean you, the ocean, Danny and his huge Bernese Mountain dog. Don't lie, Beckett. I know Danny walks his dog every morning, and I've seen you make eyes at that monstrous thing. Should I be jealous?"

Her smile widens, a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delights him. "Castle," she sighs, that beautiful laugh in her voice.

His chest tightens and then expands, a long breath that leaves him a little light-headed. "You okay?" he asks finally.

She hums, presses her mouth together in thought. Her eyes still rest on him but he can tell that she's somewhere else, in a world of her own.

"Sometimes I think maybe it would have been easier to start again," she muses, dropping a hand to the ground and digging her fingers into the sand. "You know, move somewhere where nobody knows me. New name, new city, new job."

He watches her, weighs his words carefully. "Where would you have gone?"

"I don't know. I want to say somewhere warm, but I'd probably have ended up in a place like Chicago. Hm, not Seattle," she says, wrinkling her nose. "Too rainy. But hey - San Francisco could be nice."

"Really? All the way to the West Coast? Pretty bold move, Beckett."

"Shut up," she says, but there's a small smile curving her mouth. He's suddenly reminded that she's done that same move before, that she was studying law at Stanford. Until her mother was killed.

"Okay then," he plays along. "What would be your new name? Nikki Heat?"

She almost sticks her tongue out at him. He can tell. "That would totally defeat the purpose, Castle."

"Well, you'd have to take something of your past with you, right? Otherwise it would be harsh. Complete clean slate?" He can't imagine it.

"Maybe I like harsh," she says, arching her eyebrows, but he can tell he's gotten to her. Not exactly what he meant to do.

"Fine, we'll come back to that name thing. What would be your San Francisco occupation? If you could pick anything."

"Hmm." She cocks her head. "Maybe I'd try and teach. I don't think any university would let me teach Russian Lit, but English at high school level maybe?"

He makes a sound of surprise, and she lifts her eyes to him in question. "What happened to Chief Justice?"

She shakes her head. "Too close to my old job."

Ah. That makes sense. "But - teaching, really?"

She laughs at his reaction. "I know it sounds completely out of left field. But I do love books, Castle. I love reading, and I think there's a part of me that would enjoy trying to pass that on, you know? People keep complaining that kids don't read anymore, that they just watch movies, and I-" She shrugs. "I'd like to see if I could make a difference, I guess."

Make a difference. Ah. Of course. "I see."

"Can you imagine me in a classroom though? Trying to explain to a bunch of fifteen-year-olds why Shakespeare was the greatest playwright of his time?" She smiles at the vision, and he does too. "Maybe not the best idea."

"I think you'd be great," he protests, and wow - she _would_ be amazing, wouldn't she? He can see it perfectly now, see the way her natural authority and kindness would work together to win the kids' trust and admiration, the enamored looks of said fifteen-year-olds as Beckett would read a Shakespeare sonnet with that rich, entrancing voice of hers.

But she'll never have that. She'll never be part of that beautiful circle, teaching and learning and growing; instead she gets the murders, the darkness, the brutal deaths, and the unfairness of it strikes him like never before. How unjust that somebody like Kate, someone with such reserves of light and love within her, only gets confronted with the worst of humanity.

He wants to say something, but she's already shaking her head, her eyes soft. "Well, who knows? Maybe in another life. I'm afraid I can't be anything but a cop in this one, Castle."

He frowns at her, not sure what she means. She doesn't meet his eyes. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

She chews on her bottom lip. "It's kind of the reason we're here, isn't it? My job. It's why we ran into Tyson in the first place. If I hadn't been-"

Hell no. "If you hadn't been a cop, we would never have met," Castle opposes strongly. "If you hadn't been a cop, Tyson might have gone on killing innocent women for years and years. Don't play that game, Kate. You know it doesn't help anything."

She nods slowly. "Right." She takes in a breath, like she's gathering her courage or something, and then she looks straight at him. "I called Gates yesterday."

"You did?"

"Yeah. I - I just wanted to know what my options were, you know? I realized the other day, when I saw the gun in your safe..." Her voice trails off and as she licks her lips he remembers the way she looked when her fingers touched that gun. Starstruck. "It's a part of me. It'll never go away. It's who I am, Castle."

"I know," he murmurs, resting his hand on top of her knee. He wishes she didn't sound so unhappy about it. "It's part of what I love about you too."

Her lips twist, not quite a smile. "You mean my need for adrenaline and a job that'll allow me to risk my life everyday?"

He grunts at her. "Not what this is about, and you know it. Don't play dumb, Beckett. Doesn't suit you."

She huffs a laugh and gives him a look so honest, so raw and loving that it's like a punch to his stomach. "I'd understand. If you hated me for it. I mean, it makes you nervous when I'm away from you for two hours and you _know_ I'm walking on the beach, so I'm not sure what it'll be like when we're back in New York and I-"

"Whoa, Kate." He's moved his hand so that his fingers are brushing against her lips, silencing her, and for some mysterious reason she actually lets him. "First of all, there's not a thing you could do that would make me hate you. Understood? And second, don't you worry about me. It's amazing that you felt good enough to call Gates, to inquire about your job. Do you even realize that? Seriously, I should be the least of your worries right now. You should be celebrating. In fact, _we _are going to celebrate. Right now. Breakfast time. Come on, I'll make pancakes."

He gets to her feet, holds out a hand that she - surprisingly - takes. His stomach rumbles and she laughs; he lets the sound wash over him, lets it soothe the bruised parts of him that keep whispering things like _she called Gates yesterday and she's only telling you now_ and _would she even have mentioned it if you hadn't come looking for her out here?_

Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, he tells himself firmly. The fact that she's even thinking about going back to the city - that's the only thing he needs to focus on.

* * *

Kate rests a shoulder to the bay window in Dr. Simmons's office, her eyes trained on the busy street below. It's a beautifully crisp, sunny day and it looks like everybody's been waiting for it.

"How are you doing, Kate?" The therapist asks as she closes the door behind her.

Beckett turns to the other woman. "I'm okay. Sleeping has been easier over the past few days, and it makes a hell of a difference.'

"I'm sure." Emily smiles. "Less nightmares, then? That's good."

Kate nods and takes a few steps towards the couch, pauses to examine a drawing pinned to the board next to Dr. Simmons's desk. It shows a bright orange unicorn with a blue mane, its head twice as big as its body, its legs short and plump. The unicorn has the biggest, silliest smile on its face. "Is that the work of one of your patients?" Beckett asks, holding back a laugh.

"Oh, that - no. No, my daughter drew that for me last week," Emily says, her eyes tender. "She's four. Says she wants a unicorn for her birthday. I'm not sure yet how I'm gonna get out of that one."

Kate hums, glances at the drawing one last time before sitting down. "It's adorable."

The therapist leans back into her own seat and gives Beckett a curious look. "Do you want kids, Kate?"

Whoa. Unexpected. "I-" Huh. "I, um. I don't know." Bullshit. Every time she has interacted with young children, held a baby in her arms, Kate's had that tight knot of longing in her chest. "It's complicated."

"How so?"

Oh, God. "Well, my job has always been in the way. I don't feel like it'd be very responsible of me to have kids and then risk leaving them motherless every day." She knows the feeling too intimately, the deep claws of grief and the black hole of absence.

"But you could die in a car crash, a train accident. That probability wouldn't keep you from having a baby, would it?"

Kate presses her lips together.

"What about the father?" Dr. Simmons asks, crossing her legs and resting her chin on top of her hand. "Who do you see in that role when you picture it? Rick? Is that where you see your relationship going?"

Oh crap, crap. Now images of small babies fitting into the cradle of Castle's forearm are swamping Kate's brain, so ridiculously appealing, and she's helpless to stop it. "Castle's already proven he's a really good dad," she says carefully, hoping to get away with that vague, general statement.

Emily says nothing.

Beckett rests her sweaty palms to her jeans. "If I had to imagine myself with a baby, then yes. Yeah. Castle would be a part of that."

"Would you say you're ready for that kind of commitment?"

"No," Kate answers immediately, and she's glad Castle isn't here to hear it. "God, no. We - we were only together for five months before Tyson... Before I was taken." The words still taste weird in her mouth. "That's not enough, you know?"

"You worked together for four years before that."

"Well yeah, but that was different. That was - work. A relationship is...having to wake up to the other person every morning. Having to share your space, to check in whenever you're stuck in traffic, all that stuff. It takes time."

There's a small smile on Dr. Simmons's lips. "Don't you think you do all those things already?"

Kate opens her mouth, closes it. The situation is completely-

"I just want to make sure you have valid reasons for thinking you're not ready, Kate. Not just old excuses like your job or how hard a relationship is."

"They're not _excuses._" She hears the defensiveness in her own voice and sighs, runs a hand through her hair. "Okay. Maybe they are. But the thing is - I don't have the best track record as far as relationships go, and Castle... Castle is no better than I am. So sometimes, yeah, it's hard not to wonder if we're just fooling ourselves."

"But the thought of that man is what sustained you for those two years that Jerry Tyson held you hostage. You told me yourself, and I might be paraphrasing, that you refused to die without having had the chance to see what you and Rick could become."

Right. Yeah. She does remember saying something like that. "That's true. Yes."

"Could your reluctance now have anything to do with the fact that Rick went back to his old flame while you were still presumed dead?"

What? "No." Kate frowns. "No, that's not at all - Kyra's got nothing to do with this."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure! Look, it's not like Castle cheated on me, okay? He thought I was dead; _everybody _thought I was dead. He was just trying to find his way, trying to - move on from the grief and the pain, and no one can judge him for that. You don't get to judge him for that. He was doing the best he could, like everyone else."

Kate breathes in and out, the indignation slowly receding, and she realizes then that she's standing on her feet. Must've pushed herself off the couch in her eagerness to defend Castle. She looks down at Dr. Simmons, a slight twinge of guilt in her chest, but the therapist is smiling and looking as composed as ever.

"Good. You really do believe that."

Beckett wants to nitpick over that word, _believe, _but she releases a long breath and decides to let go. "Yeah. I do."

"Well, I think you should talk to Rick about your fears concerning your relationship, Kate. He probably has some of his own. I know that you've both been reluctant to discuss the future and I understand, but it's probably time now."

Oh, great. _So, Castle. You wanna tell me why your first two marriages ended with a divorce?_

"Have you given any more thought to that package Jerry Tyson sent you?" Emily asks.

Ha. "No," Kate admits. "I've very successfully avoided thinking about it."

Dr. Simmons lets out a single note of laughter. "That's okay. Everything in its own time. You've made such amazing progress already, Kate. You should be proud of yourself."

Proud. Right.

She might not be quite there yet.


	24. Chapter 24

"Yes, Dad, I eat." Kate rolls her eyes and sinks deeper into the couch, tucking a foot under her thigh. "I promise. Castle's been cooking every day, which I'm sure you already know. Yeah, I know you two have been talking. I'm a detective, remember?"

She smiles as she listens to her father's stammered answer, cranes her head to see what Castle is doing. He went into his study a little while ago, and she thought he was meant to Skype with Alexis but the door is opened and she can't hear a thing.

Her father goes silent on the other end of the line. Oops. "Sorry Dad, what was that?"

"I said I miss you, Katie."

She closes her eyes and exhales slowly. "I know, Dad. I miss you too."

"I mean, it's great talking to you on the phone, honey, but I want us to have dinner together. I want - I want to hug my daughter and not let go for a little while, you know?"

She wants it too. Her father's strong arms around her. "Soon, Dad. I promise. Castle and I are coming back to the city - it's going to be a couple weeks at the most, and then we can meet there."

A beat. "I could drive to the Hamptons," Jim says, not for the first time. "It wouldn't take me that long - a few hours maybe, five or six-"

"Dad." Kate sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and blinks fast. Of course she wants to see him; it's not about that. She may feel more like herself than she did three months ago, and she might not have had a panic attack in weeks, but deep down she knows she's not ready yet.

It's easy to sound good and light-hearted once a week for an hour on the phone; if he were to come here and look at her with those sharp clear eyes of his, he would see too much. He'd see the cracks in her soul and the darkness that she still hasn't banished completely, and she - she can't have that.

She can't.

"I burned that letter like you asked," her father says after a long pause, like she didn't just deny him his wish.

Kate nods, then remembers he can't see her. "Good. Good. Thank you."

They share another spell of silence. That's okay; it's the way they've always been, her father and her, and they know better than to try and do pointless small talk. Silence is their own way of communication, and they say a lot more with it than they do with words.

"I'll let you go," Jim says finally. "Roger is going to come and pick me up soon. Wants to go deer-hunting."

"Well, say hello to Roger for me," Kate smiles, picturing the two men with their hunting gear, stamping through the snow. "You two have fun."

"Will do. Oh - do you think I could talk to Rick for a second? I wanted to ask him something."

"Um, sure. I'll see if I can find him." Kate leans forward and pushes herself off the couch. "But you better not be plotting something behind my back," she warns as she walks into the hallway.

"Katie dear, I'm your father. If anyone is allowed to plot things behind your back, I think it would be me."

She chuckles and peeks her head into Castle's study. She can sense immediately that something is wrong: Rick's at his desk, staring at his laptop, but he doesn't even have his fingers on the keys. He's just sitting there, his face that rigid mask that she's learned to recognize as internalized anger.

Uh-oh.

"Dad, I'll call you back, okay?"

Her father, bless him, doesn't ask any questions. "Sure. Take care, Katie."

"You too," she answers mechanically, and then she hangs up, slides the phone back in her pocket as she moves forward.

She pauses within a yard of the desk. Swallows. "Castle?"

He lifts his eyes to her and there is that distance he always puts up when he's hurt, when she doesn't make sense to him. Like that time at her apartment when he said he was done.

Without a word he shifts the laptop, orients the screen towards her. She takes another step and her eyes fall from his face to the internet page he pulled up.

Ah. That's one of the pages she marked as a favorite - the apartment she liked best. Okay, that was kind of a stupid thing to do on his laptop, but she would have told him anyway. What's so wrong about looking for a place?

"What's that?" he asks, his voice controlled, blank.

Kate frowns. "One of the places I was looking at. For when we're back in the city. It's a nice location-"

"You already have a place."

"Yeah, well. Somebody else lives there now, Castle." Duh.

He looks confused. "What?"

"My old place?" What is he talking about?

He looks away from her, presses his mouth together. "I don't mean your old place, Beckett. I mean mine. I mean the loft."

She stares at him with her mouth parted. The loft. "You - whoa. Castle. Don't you think it's a little early for us to move in together?"

He looks at her like she's crazy. "Kate. What exactly do you think we've been doing here? You're sleeping in my bed; we go to therapy together every week. We eat dinner together, we watch movies together-"

She raises a hand to stop him. "I know that. But it's not-"

"You've already moved in with me. You just don't want to open your eyes and admit it."

Kate sucks in a breath, sets her jaw. "It's not the _same._"

He rolls his chair back and stands up, so much taller than she is. "Same as what? Same as what, Kate? Some stupid rulebook that says you're not supposed to move in together before month 8 of your relationship? Do you know how long we've known each other? Over six years. Six. Years. And at least four of those I've spent being madly, desperately in love with you. I think that should count for something."

"Castle, it's not about the time we've spent together. And it's not about some stupid rule either."

"Then what is it about? Because you know, Kate, this feels a little like you've been using me and my house for your recovery and now that you're feeling better, now that you're back, you're just going to ditch me and go back to your solitary, work-centered life. Which, if I remember correctly, wasn't that much fun until I came around."

Anger swells in Beckett's chest and it's so hard, so hard not to give in to it, not to get him back for this. Make him hurt in return. But hurt is what this whole conversation's stemming from - she hurt him without meaning to by keeping him out of this, by not letting him know she was looking for a place. Getting mad at him - it's not going to solve anything.

"I told you before," she starts, collecting her words. Man, this is hard. "When I was... When Tyson had me. I thought about you every day. You were with me, in a way - not the way that I needed, but it was all I was going to get. And so when I saw you again, Castle, I just - I couldn't stand the thought of not being with you. I'd had two years of not being with you, and it was..." She touches her tongue to her upper lip. "I hated it."

The atmosphere in the room is completely different now, quiet and still instead of the heavy, contained anger, and she knows without looking at him that he's listening.

"I don't know if you realize how crazy it was for me, coming here with you, just the two of us. This is the kind of thing I usually run from. You know me. Commitment phobic, one foot out of the door. I've heard it all. But I came here with you because I wasn't myself, because I needed you so badly, and you - you were wonderful to me. Like always."

She risks a glance to him, finds closer than she expected. His face is open again, his eyes attentive and thoughtful as he leans into the desk. "So what?" he asks softly, his tone a little lighter. "I was wonderful, and my reward is to have you leave me?"

Kate lets out a short, silent laugh and shakes her head at him. "You're so dramatic. I'm not leaving you. I'm in love with you, Rick. I just want my space back, and that's a good thing. That means I'm me again."

"_I _don't want my space back," he points out with a pout.

She arches an eyebrow at him. "Did you ever want any space to begin with?"

His mouth twitches in avowal, a tiny smile that considerably loosens her chest. "Not from you, I didn't." His eyes grow serious then. "I know we're different, Kate. I know that. But I-" he shrugs. "I like living with you. A lot. I'm happy living with you."

The way he says it, like it's nothing, like he didn't just lay his heart out at her feet-

Beckett has to remind herself to breathe. She rubs her fingers and then runs them through her hair, unsure how to respond to that beautiful statement. He deserves more, so much more than what she has to give, and she knows that particular frustration is probably something she's gonna have to learn to live with. "I'm happy with you too," she says in the end, looking into his eyes to make sure he believes her. "But I don't want it to be because of Tyson, I don't want us to make any life-changing decisions because of what happened. You deserve more. We both do. We should move in together because we want to, because we're sure, not because we're desperate to be near the other."

He watches her for a moment, saying nothing, and then he reaches out and trails his hand over the back of hers, slowly laces their fingers. "Let me ask you something. If Tyson hadn't happened, if you hadn't fallen into the river that night. Do you think we'd be living together by now?"

She gapes at him, thrown by the question. Would they? She has no idea. Maybe they'd have broken up; maybe something would have split them up for good, some old flame of Castle's or her job getting in the way-

But maybe not. "It's a possibility," she says, has to clear her throat.

He smiles. "I think so too. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we were married at this stage. Or at least engaged."

Engaged. God, he's going to give her a heart attack. "Castle."

He laughs, looks entirely delighted at whatever's on her face (horror, probably, but maybe a tinge of want too). "Relax, Beckett. I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. I'm just saying - this is the road we would've taken if Jerry Tyson hadn't come in our way. And refusing to take it now would like...letting him win, wouldn't it?"

Jeez, he's messing with her brain. Kate pinches the bridge of her nose and groans, shoots him a dirty look. "Giving me a headache there, Castle."

His face softens, that gorgeous love spilling out of his eyes. "Let me make it simple then. I want you to live with me. Not because I'm scared you're going to be snatched away by some deranged criminal, not because I need to watch over you and make sure you're okay, but just because - I love you, Kate."

Silly man. He's going to make her cry. "I... I'll think about it," she rasps, blinking fast to push back the traitorous tears. "Okay?"

"Okay," he murmurs, and then he's leaning in and brushing his lips over hers, so gentle that her heart leaps in her chest.

Before she knows it her arms are around his neck, her body pressing up into his, her mouth open and seeking. He grunts in surprise but kisses her back, his tongue hot and nimble against hers, his hands cupping her ass and hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and then rocks her hips, moans in pleasure at the sensation. Castle starts walking them to the door, his fingers roaming and slipping under her shirt; Kate gasps and arches, upsets their fragile balance. They crash into the wall and she bangs her head, hisses at the sudden flare of pain.

Castle murmurs an apology and kisses her neck, smoothes his fingers at her hip, but the startling ache, the physical discomfort have just - snapped her right out of it. She's tense now, her body curled in on itself, and it doesn't take long for him to pick up on it. "Kate? Hey, Beckett, what's wrong?"

She closes her eyes, the tears welling up again, and she wishes so badly that she were able to give him this. That she could love him in every way possible, every way he should be loved, tender, stubborn, amazing man that he is. "I'm sorry," she manages to get out through gritted teeth, and then he's lowering her legs gently, setting her feet back on the floor.

She misses his touch instantly.

"Look at me," he orders, and her eyes snap open despite herself. His face is so solemn, so intense that it makes her wonder she could ever think of him as shallow. "Don't you dare apologize to me. Not for this. You hear me? I don't care. I don't _care_. And if I needed to get my rocks off then the fact that you're alive would freaking _do it for me_, Kate. You understand?"

She nods slowly, lets out a breath she wasn't aware she was holding. "Yeah."

"Good. Now." He takes a step back, gestures to the laptop. "You gonna show me those other places you were looking at. That first apartment is terrible, seriously. Have you looked at the woodwork? It's crumbling; you'd need to have it redone immediately, and that would probably cost about half your rent. Trust me. You don't want to get into that. Plus, the bathroom is _tiny, _Beckett. You telling me you could live without a bathtub? Because _I_ couldn't, and I'm not the one running a bath in the middle of the night when I can't sleep-"

Kate stifles a smile and pushes herself off the wall, her heart pounding with gratitude. But she's not allowed to say _sorry _and she's not sure what the policy is about _thank you_, so instead she crowds Castle's back and wraps her arms around his waist, presses a deep kiss to his shoulder blade.

He stops in the middle of a sentence, layers a hand over hers. She can feel the deep breath he takes in, the hum at the back of his throat, and for a moment - no matter her own failures, no matter their misunderstandings - everything is just how it should be.


	25. Chapter 25

Kate leans forward on the couch, sets her elbows on her knees. She laces her fingers. Unlaces them. Pushes her hair back. Rests her forehead to the heel of her hand.

Then she hears Castle coming down the stairs, that skipping gait that means he's in a good mood, and she sits up straight.

"Hey there," he says with a smile as he walks into the living room. "You're up early." He comes forward and leans in to kiss her mouth, his thumb skimming the line of her jaw. His eyes are very blue in the morning light, complemented by the dark fabric of his sweater, and Kate's insides flutter in response.

"Hi," she says, her voice thready, a little rough. There's awareness in the way he looks at her, something burning, but he only presses his lips to the corner of her mouth, slow and somehow more erotic than the dirtiest of kisses. Damn him.

"Why are you sitting out here on your own when there's coffee in the kitchen?" he asks, dropping onto the couch next to her. She holds her breath and waits for him to see it. Three, two, one- "Kate. Is that-?"

"Yeah," she says. Yes, that brown package on the coffee table is Tyson's. Yes, she went into Castle's study and got it out of the safe. Yes, she's a little nervous about his reaction. "It is."

He stays silent for a moment and then there's the nudge of his fingers against hers. She opens her hand, lets him have it, and when she lifts her eyes to him he looks so strong and _ready._

"You come to a decision?" he asks. She loves him for asking instead of assuming, for the way he just - has her back.

"I think so." Her gaze drifts to the package and she swallows, thinks of the long sessions with Emily, the months of feeling like Castle deserves better, of trying to get back to who she used to be. All because of one man.

Rick's waiting next to her, trying to be patient, but his antsy knee betrays him. Kate reaches out and presses their joined hands to his thigh, stilling. "I don't want to know," she says on an exhale. "It won't - it's not going to make a difference now. You're right. We should just...burn it. Get it over with."

She's expecting relief, pleasure, maybe a dash of triumph too, but instead she gets a hesitant sort of quiet. "Are you sure?" Castle asks after a beat.

It makes her want to scream. This is what he's been advocating all along, what he's been so insistent was the right thing to do, and now he asks her if she's sure? "Thought it was what you wanted," she points out, an eyebrow raised. "In fact, I'm a little surprised you don't have a match in your hand right now, Castle."

He sighs, lets go of her fingers so he can run a hand through his hair. His too-long hair. He needs to get it cut. "Look, I - I've been thinking too, and maybe fire is a little bit...over the top."

"Over the top." What is this, an alternative universe?

"It's just so definitive, you know? There's no going back. I mean, you don't know what's in that envelope. And that key Jordan talked about - that could be important. It might even lead to evidence, Kate."

"You're telling me you've changed your mind. You don't want it burned anymore."

He closes his eyes for a second, rubs his fingertips to his forehead. She's pretty sure he got that from her. "I just, I don't want you to do something you might regret. Maybe burning it - maybe it's not the solution. What if someday you want answers that could've been in that envelope and it's just gone?"

She pushes out a breath. "Look. I know this might look like avoidance, like I'm running away from my problems - but it's not. Okay? I promise. There's _nothing _in that envelope that will help me now or ever. I've come to terms with what happened, with the fact that I'm not gonna get any of that time back, and I just need to move forward now." He nods, still observing her intently, and she strokes her fingers over his. "_We_ need to move forward."

A slow, slow smile touches his mouth. He curls a hand around hers and brings it to his lips, brushes a kiss to her skin. "And we are, Kate."

She smiles back, feathers her thumb over his chin. "So let's burn the hell out of that thing."

* * *

If Castle were to do this his way, he'd make a whole ceremony out of it. He'd wait until it was dark, light up a bunch of candles and join hands with Kate, start chanting as he watched the last physical evidence of Tyson disappear.

Okay, maybe not. But he'd certainly do more than just - stand at the sink with the envelope in one hand and a lighter in the other.

He lets out a inward sigh. Whatever works. He knows Kate's always lacked his taste for drama; she likes things simple and clear, without any embellishments. She thinks a good proposal is an _intimate _one.

Not that he's - been thinking of proposing or anything. Nope. No. Not at all.

"Okay," Kate murmurs to herself, her thumb stroking the wheel of the lighter. "Ready?" She glances at him and he crowds a little closer, even if he doesn't really have much of a part to play here. It's gotta be her.

"Your call, Beckett," he says encouragingly, brushing his fingers to her upper arm.

She nods and catches her bottom lip between her teeth. Then she flicks her thumb and the flame springs to life, twists and dances as Beckett brings it closer to the brown envelope. Fire catches easily, eats at the paper that blackens and shrivels up in Kate's hand; she stares at it with an intensity that makes Castle hold his breath, lets the flame come so close that it seems to lick her fingers.

"Kate," he warns right when she releases her hold. What's left of Tyson's package clatters down to the sink and slowly turns to ashes, leaving only one thing visible and whole.

"The key," she breathes out. It's small and bronze-colored, with a round bow, the kind of key that would open a safe or a locker in one of Castle's books.

He reaches for Kate's hand before she can grab it and burn her fingers, makes her pivot so she's facing him. "Hey, we can give that to Jordan. Whatever that key opens - it's her job to investigate this, figure it out. Not ours."

She nods, the movement a little stiff, and then she lets out a long breath and surprises him by stepping closer. Her cheek presses to his chest and her arms wrap around his waist, the embrace so sudden and strong that for a second he stands there stupidly with his arms hanging.

"He can't hurt us," she says, her voice raw enough that he wonders if she's crying. "He can't hurt us anymore."

Castle closes his eyes and hugs her back, his fingertips drawing circles over the expanse of her back. His lips brush the crown of her dark hair. "Yeah. You're safe, Kate."

She doesn't say anything, just holds him tight, and all he can hear is the distant echo of her past words.

_I'll never be safe._

* * *

He's reading in bed that night, this amazing thriller based in South Africa that just makes him want to open his laptop and book tickets to Cape Town right this second, when Kate comes out of the bathroom. He's almost at the end of his book, the action so intense that he keeps forgetting to breathe, and so he waits until he's finished his paragraph to raise his eyes to Beckett.

Good thing he did too. What she's wearing - shit, there's no way he's going back to the book now.

Lingerie. One of those ridiculously short nighties, black lace and a shimmery night blue fabric that looks absolutely fantastic on her. He wants to touch it. Her. Everything.

Kate walks towards him with that slow, purposeful swing to her hips, the small smile on her face flipping his insides. The difference in her body is striking, the toned curve of her calves, the ripple of muscle in her upper arms, the fleshed-out line of her jaw; for a second he wonders if that's what she's trying to do here, show him that she's okay, how fully she's recovered.

Like he'd ever think she was anything but gorgeous.

Her short curls brush against her shoulders with every step, flirt with the soft skin of her neck, and when she leans in he gets a stunning, unobstructed view of her breasts down that very daring nightgown.

Shit.

Kate takes the book from him and gently deposits it on the bedside table, then sets a knee on the bed and straddles his lap. He's having serious trouble breathing with the weight of her pressing down on him, the entrancing pink of her mouth, the dark beauty of her eyes staring right into him.

He's vaguely aware that he should resist, ask her if she's okay and possibly try to get her talking, but the moment her lips touch his he's lost. She parts her mouth and licks at his bottom lip, blows hotly against his skin; Castle can't help kissing her back, a whine vibrating at the back of his throat for how much he _wants _her. She's delicate in her ministrations, elusive, her fingers feathering over his neck, his cheeks, his temples. She pushes her tongue into his mouth only to retreat seconds later, suck on that sensitive spot at the base of his neck, and Rick's eyes snap open again, his hands in fists with the effort of holding back.

"Touch me," she says, mouth open at his throat, her nose skimming his jaw.

He swallows and closes his eyes again, but his hands - his hands have a will of their own and they do as they're told, curl around Kate's waist and thigh, the silky material wrinkling under his palms.

"Yes," she murmurs, grinding down on him and finding his lips again. Her kiss is more intent this time, so damn erotic, and before he knows it his hips are rocking back into hers. He's grateful for the sheets that still separate them. "Castle," she hums, her voice pitched a little higher than usual; he can't not respond to her, so his fingers slip under the nightgown, run over her thigh.

There's a hitch in her breath and he pauses immediately, realizes that the skin under his thumb isn't as smooth as the rest of her.

Ah. The scar from the gunshot wound. He's not seen it - or well, he has, but never this close. He's not had a chance to familiarize himself with it yet, study it, accept it as part of her.

Rick leans back into the pillows and drags his eyes down her body, noticing despite himself the lovely flush in her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her chest, the strap that's slipped off her shoulder. He rucks up the hem of the nightie and he smoothes his index finger over the drawn, puckered skin. The scar is circular and bigger than the one between her breasts, maybe an inch in diameter; while it's not red, it's definitely a more vivid pink than the rest of her thigh.

She didn't have a world-class surgeon patching her up this time.

"I know it's not exactly pretty," Kate says softly. His eyes snap back to her, but she's not looking at him: she's staring down at his fingers, at the messy scar. "But the doctor at the hospital said I could probably get plastic surgery if I wanted. Make it look better."

Castle huffs and moves his left hand to the back of her neck, brings her down for a bruising kiss. "I don't care," he says into her lips. "I don't care what your scars look like, Kate Beckett."

She cups his face in her hands, rests her forehead against his, noses touching, and he wants to cry. He wants to cry because despite everything that's been done to her, despite the knives and the bullets and the mental torture, she's sitting here on his lap with her hands and lips so tender and it's a freaking _miracle_, that's what it is, a miracle he's not sure what he's done to deserve.

"You haven't told me that story yet." He brushes his thumb to the scar, letting her know what he means.

"Later," she sighs, her fingers tracing furrows through his hair. She paints her lips over his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth; he feels her hand dip under his t-shirt and catches her wrist before she can go any further, turns his head away when she tries to kiss him.

"I want to hear it now." It's a risky thing to ask, he knows. But it's the only way he can think of to derail her, make her stop without actually saying no.

Kate looks at him with something dark in her eyes, hurt or anger or maybe both. She presses her lips together and drops her hands to her sides, scrambles off his lap and into a sitting position. With her back turned to him.

He half expects her to walk out of the room, but she doesn't. She stays there, her shoulders hunched, her head down, and after a long moment she starts talking. "Tyson was very careful. Especially after the first time I tried to run. It took a while to win his trust back, get another shot at it. But I got there eventually. He untied me completely so I could shower, and then - he got a phone call, was distracted. So I hit him on the head with whatever I could find, some kind of ceramic toothbrush holder, and I ran. Made it to the door this time, but it was locked. No key that I could find. So I tried the living room windows, managed to get one open, and that's when he caught up with me and shot me in the leg."

The way she tells that story, so cold and clinical, makes him shiver. "And then what? He stitched you up?" Jeez, there really was something wrong with the guy.

Her shoulders lift and drop. "I guess so. A lot of my memories after that are - fuzzy. I probably had a fever, and then Tyson drugged me up too. It was harder to keep up, tell how much time had gone by. When I started getting better, that's when he set up the speakers in my room and started playing me the recordings."

Her back trembles with a long shiver and Castle wants to reach out, to hold her close, but he's not sure he should.

"So, there. You have your story." Her voice is quiet but calm. He starts moving his hand closer to hers, inch by inch, but before they can touch Kate is sliding off the bed and heading for the door.

Her step doesn't falter, and she doesn't look back.

* * *

Kate sighs and rubs a hand to her closed eyes, rolls over in the guest bed. Despite her best attempts she can't seem to fall asleep. She's tried every technique she knows to try and relax, empty her mind, but her thoughts keep spiralling out of her control, bringing her right back to her basement cell. She's strangely aware of her body under the comforter, the fabric of the sexy nightgown more uncomfortable than arousing now, and she longs for the soft cotton of her pajamas.

But that would mean going back into their bedroom, facing Castle, and she's not ready for that.

She's not sure she can take another rejection.

He probably thinks that it was clever of him, that she didn't pick up on it. He knew exactly what he was doing, didn't he? Asking her about Tyson and her gunshot wound when she was trying to make love to him. He knew full well that it would kill the mood, and he asked anyway.

She's starting to wonder if maybe he just doesn't-

Stupid. Come on, Beckett. She knows better than to doubt her own power of seduction. The heat between them is still there; she'd be able to feel it if he wasn't into her the way he used to, but that's not the case. The way he kisses her, the sounds he made tonight - she has to trust that, trust that they will, ultimately, figure it out.

Maybe it's just as hard for him as it is for her. He's got issues of his own, she knows that. Maybe - God, maybe he still thinks about Kyra when Kate touches him like that.

The thought makes her sit up in bed, her eyes suddenly open, her stomach churning.

Well, she's not going to get any sleep now. Kate pushes back the covers and swings her legs out of bed, waits for her eyes to adjust. Then she tiptoes out of the bedroom, makes her way to the stairs.

Her feet take her to the kitchen. She opens the cupboards and inspects their stocks, grabs the box of crackers that she made Castle buy last time they went shopping. Crackers make a good midnight snack. Two a.m. snack. Whatever.

One of the sleeves is already open, so she keeps that one and puts the box back, fills a glass of water. She hoists herself up on the kitchen counter and looks through the window as she grazes, licking the salt off the crackers before she pops them in her mouth. The night is clear, thousands of stars lighting up the sky; the sea stretches out as Kate can see. So peaceful.

She eats the last cracker and downs her water, slides down the counter to rinse her glass. The key that was in Tyson's envelope is now safely tucked in Castle's desk - top drawer - and Kate can't help going into his study just to take a look, make sure. She finds it, of course, runs her index finger along the cool metal before she pushes the drawer closed.

Burning that package wasn't as liberating as she hoped. She doesn't regret it, doesn't feel bad about it either - which Dr. Simmons pointed out is a very good thing - but... Kate wishes it could all end there, with that envelope, and of course that's a silly, childish thing to hope for. Her life and Tyson's are still irreparably tangled, and even if Beckett has been patiently untwining those threads for months now, it will take longer than that.

She yawns. Her body's heavy, aching for sleep, so she pads back upstairs and without thinking turns left into Castle's bedroom.

Oh. Well.

She's here now.

Kate shrugs and heads for the bed. The sheets are already undone, so all she has to do is lift her corner and slide into bed as discreetly as she can. Castle grunts and moves closer, seeking her even in his sleep, it seems; she curls onto her side and trails her fingers down his jaw, a soft touch that seems to settle him.

Kate closes her eyes, breathes him in, and she lets sleep take her.


	26. Chapter 26

Kate manages to talk Castle into a walk on the beach the next morning, even though the wind is strong and the clouds are a deep, menacing grey. He grumbles a little, of course, makes a show of tightening his scarf the moment they step outside, but Beckett is drinking it all in. The humidity in the air, the taste of salt on her tongue, the deafening crash of the waves on the shore: she was born for this. Born to stand in the middle of a storm, watch it unfurl and hit and wind down.

For a second she wants to turn to Castle and say: _Let's not go back. Let's buy a boat and sail across the world to those tiny hidden islands where people hunt and fish and walk around naked all the time._

But she's Kate Beckett, homicide cop, city girl, and the impulse is gone before the words can make it to her mouth. Castle notices - when does he not - and he reaches for her gloved hand, squeezes it. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

She gives him a smile for that, tries to lace their fingers - but the gloves make that difficult. She settles for old-fashioned hand-holding and shakes her head. "Nothing, just." Silly daydreams. But Rick's looking at her in that soft, inviting way, and she figures she might as well take her chance. "Have you heard anything from Kyra?"

His eyes widen. "Ah, no. No, not since..." They both know the end to that sentence. _Not since we broke up so I could be with you._

Kate nods, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, and he adds, "I've not exactly been expecting her call. I, uh, I doubt I'm her favorite person right now. Can't see why she'd want to talk to me."

"Oh." Beckett frowns, glances at the dark, moving shape of the sea. The sand is soft under her shoes. "I thought, I don't know. The way you talked about it - I thought it'd been a...friendly break-up. If there is such a thing."

"No, it was. It was. It's just... A bad situation. Not - not you, obviously, I'm thrilled to no end that you're alive and you're here with me after all that-"

Kate laughs, can't help it; there's something a little comical, a lot adorable about his sudden distress. "I know, Castle."

He narrows his eyes at her, but there's more relief than actual annoyance on his face. "At least _someone_ thinks this is funny. Anyway, as I was saying, I haven't tried calling her." He watches the line of the horizon for a second. "Guess I didn't want to seem like I was rubbing it in. It felt cruel, you know? Unnecessary."

"But the two of you are friends, right? Or you were before this whole thing happened. So maybe _she_ wants to hear from you. You can't just make that call in her place, Rick. That's not how it works."

He stares at her. "Just to be clear. You...are telling me I should call Kyra."

Kate shrugs, feels a stick break under her foot. "Yeah. You know - make sure she's okay. And if she doesn't want to talk to you, she doesn't have to pick up. But at least this way you'll know for sure, rather than just imagine things in your head."

He doesn't reply immediately. They walk in silence for a few minutes, the sky ever-darkening above them; Kate's arm stretches as they move apart, relaxes when they come together again. "Is there a reason you're asking about Kyra now?" he asks at last, his eyes almost grey in the dim light.

Beckett breathes in the smell of the sea, tilts her head back to look at the stormy clouds overhead. "Not really. I feel a little responsible, that's all."

Castle stops dead in his tracks. "Responsible for what?"

"Well, if you look at it a certain way, I did kind of... steal her boyfriend. It's not that simple, I know," she says, stalling his protest with a sharp look. "But let's face it, Castle. If Kyra's miserable right now, it's probably because of me."

"It is _not._ If it's anyone's fault, Kate, it's mine. I'm the one who should have believed in you rather than go back to Kyra the first chance I got. I'm the one who hurt you. Both of you. So don't even start-"

She shuts him up the only way she knows how. She cups the back of his neck with her free hand and presses a forceful kiss to his lips, gives him a hint of tongue before she retreats. He looks a little dazed; Kate smiles, brushes her mouth over his again, then smoothes her thumb over his eyebrow. "Part of me's also grateful, you know."

Confusion swims in Castle's blue eyes. "Grateful."

"To Kyra." Kate takes a step back, lets out a breath. "I've said this before, Rick, but - I've been in that place. Obsessing over my mother's murder, chasing leads that barely even deserved the name. Memorizing the details of the case until they were all I knew, until I saw them every single time I closed my eyes. Like you did with me. And if Kyra - if she helped you crawl out of that hole, reminded you that life was worth living, then yeah. I'm grateful."

He watches her for a moment, his lips pressed and his eyes intense. Then without warning he tugs her into him, offsets her balance just enough that her mouth crashes back onto his. He kisses her slowly, deliberately, and the confident stroke of his tongue makes her knees turn to water. "Have I ever told you what an extraordinary woman you are, Kate Beckett?"

She can't help the bright smile that blossoms on her lips. "Let me think. No, actually, I don't remember. Don't think I've ever heard that word come out of your mouth before."

He inches closer to her, his eyes dark and full of promise. "You sure, Beckett? You could be under oath here. You have any idea how much time you would get for perjuring yourself?"

"What are you gonna do about it? Arrest me? Where are your handcuffs, Detective Castle?"

He groans and she's really, really liking what she sees on his face, but then thunder has to rumble in the distance and ruin it all. "We should, ah. We should probably head back," he says, making an obvious effort to recover his control. "Unless we want to-"

That's when the sky opens up and rain starts pouring down on them.

"-get drenched," Castle finishes with a resigned sigh.

"It's just water," Kate reminds him, linking her arm with his and turning them around. "Won't kill you, I promise. And think, how convenient! You live close by and your closet is full of dry clothes. Quite the lucky man, if you ask me."

He smirks at her. "Kate Beckett finding _me _a silver lining. I didn't think I'd see the day."

She sticks her tongue out at him. "Come on, Castle. I'll race you to the house."

* * *

Castle's standing in the shower, hot water pounding on his shoulders and slowly warming him up, when he suddenly gets this vision of a scene for the novel. He can see it all unfurl, can see the initially mundane conversation between Nikki and Rook turn into a passionate fight that leads to even more passionate sex, and his fingers start itching, the words building up inside him.

Damn. He reaches for the soap and washes himself quickly, tries to stall the sentences forming in his mind, the sound of them so right that he yearns to write them down. So much for a long, relaxing shower.

He stops the water and almost trips on his own feet as he stumbles out, grabs a towel. He gives himself a cursory rub and then jumps into his clean clothes, cuts his thumb on the zipper of his jeans in his haste. He's not even sure how he managed that, but there's no time to waste; he sucks on the blood and slips his shirt on, walks out of the bathroom with his fingers still fumbling for the buttons.

He hurries down the stairs and goes straight into his study, vaguely aware of Kate's voice calling out something to him. He simply can't stop now. He knows she'll understand; she seems so pleased that he's writing again, has given him that secret smile every time he's brought up Nikki and Rook. As if she knows perfectly well she's responsible for every word of it.

Rick opens his laptop and watches the screen come to life, drops into his chair with a sigh as he calls up the word processor. Finally.

His fingers dance over the keys and the rest of the world disappears.

* * *

Kate leans a shoulder into the doorframe and watches him for a moment, absorbing the feverish look on his face and the quick staccato of his fingers. Sometimes he pauses for a few seconds, his mouth moving silently like he's trying out the words, and his eyes stray from the screen, sweep over Kate without seeing her.

It's kinda hot, actually. The way he's completely focused, nothing else registering. She has memories of him looking at her like that, moving over her body with the same intensity on his face, and it coils tightly in her stomach, leaves her a little breathless.

Not now, Beckett.

She blinks a few times, shaking herself out of it, and she pads quietly inside. Castle doesn't seem to notice; he keeps typing urgently even as Kate stands at his back, leans over his shoulder. She presses her cheek to his, lets her hands slide down, her arms wrap around his chest, and she waits for him to come back to her.

He slows down, frowns, the course of his hands over the keyboard more hesitant now. Kate glances at the screen and then looks away, unwilling to spoil that brand new novel for herself. "You with me?" she asks softly when his index finger hits the period and stills.

He hums his acquiescence, but she can see his eyes intent on the screen, going over what he's written.

"I've gotta go into town, Castle," she says, nudging his cheekbone with her nose. "Last check-up at the hospital today." She waits for an answer.

"Right," he says after a moment, distractedly resting a hand over hers.

"It shouldn't take very long. An hour, tops. So I figure, since you're busy, I can drive there and back on my own. Okay? You keep writing, finish your chapter, maybe come up with another one. Take your time. I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay." He's still not looking at her, so Kate trails her hand a little lower, slips two fingers under the waistband of his pants. Castle jerks and lets out a startled, adorable gasp. He turns his head, blinks at her.

"Can you repeat that back to me?" she says, smiling at his clueless face.

"You're going to your check-up. An hour. You'll be back."

Kate can't help a quiet laugh. "Not bad, Writer-boy. Not bad at all." She leans in and brushes her lips to his warm, tender mouth. "See you then," she murmurs, and she heads out.

* * *

Castle edits his chapter carefully, researches the different kinds of wildlife one might encounter when hunting in the state of New York. He usually does that before he writes - he's had a few perfectly good scenes ruined because of one tiny detail popping up to invalidate the whole setup - but apparently he's lucked out today. Only a couple minor things to change. He reworks the last line, trying different arrangements of words until he finds the exact right phrasing, and then he saves the document with a satisfied hum.

It's getting pretty good. He was nervous at first, kept second-guessing himself, but now he's back in control. He's got this.

Rick tilts his head, considers sending the first three chapters to Gina. It's tempting. Gina, for all her faults, is an excellent editor; she's blunt about what she likes and doesn't like, tells him clearly what she thinks he should do differently. And she'd be able to tell him whether or not Black Pawn still wants him.

Not yet, he decides, pulling the laptop shut. He's got maybe two, three more chapters to go. Might as well finish his first draft before he reaches out to his ex-wife. He's given Black Pawn no reason to trust him over the last two years, so it might help his case if he actually has a complete novel to show them.

Castle pushes himself off his chair and stretches, pops a few joints. His body's tingling with the long stretch of inactivity; Rick works his neck, his shoulders as he walks down the hallway. "Kate?"

He's not sure exactly when she came into his study to tell him she was off to the hospital. He wishes he had paid more attention now, because the moment his voice trails off into silence he can't help but picture the worst.

Something showed up on the x-rays and the doctors decided to put her through more tests. She was driving too fast on the way back and crashed the car. Someone - not Tyson, Tyson is _dead_, he reminds himself - was waiting for her outside the house, waiting to kidnap her or rob her or-

He closes his eyes and rubs his fingers over his eyebrow, thinks of what Kate would say if she knew where his mind's at.

Yup. She'd make fun of him.

He's standing there in the hallway when his stomach starts a series of impressive growls and he realizes he's hungry. _Starving_ even. Oh. In his writing frenzy he skipped lunch, didn't he?

Hmm. Gotta fix that.

* * *

Kate turns the key in the lock and eases the door open, steps inside. The rich aroma of Castle's coffee welcomes her home, wraps around her as she closes the door and sheds her shoes. She smiles and tiptoes to the kitchen, hoping to sneak up on him.

She finds him sitting at the table with an empty plate and a smoking mug in front of him. He leaps to his feet the moment he sees her, his eyes crinkled in pleasure, and he crowds her before she can get rid of her coat.

"Hey," he murmurs against her ear, his hands on her waist, holding her close. He wants to cuddle, huh?

Kate hides her smile in his shirt, presses her lips to the side of his neck. "You miss me, Castle?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, and she laughs out loud, a full sound that surprises her.

"Liar," she says, resting her hands on his chest and pushing him back. "You were writing. I'm sure you hardly noticed."

He narrows his eyes at her. "I noticed," he protests, and there's something in his voice that catches her attention.

She cocks her head at him. "Were you worried?"

He shrugs, but she knows the dejected look that flashes across his eyes. The _You see right through me _look. "Maybe a little," he says. She rewards his honesty with a brush of her fingers against his. "You hungry?" he asks. "Cause I just made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and I was thinking I could have another one. Or maybe half. Yeah. You wanna share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me, Beckett?" He wriggles an eyebrow and Kate bites her lip, feels another laugh ripple in her chest.

"Sure, Rick. Make me a sandwich."

She leans against the table, her thigh pressed to the solid wooden edge, and she watches him move around the kitchen, goofy and so sweet. The man she loves. Alexis's father.

It just doesn't make sense. "Castle. What happened with Meredith and Gina?"

She didn't mean to blurt it out like that; she sees the way his back stiffens, the surprised look he gives her over his shoulder, and she wishes she could take it back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-" But she doesn't know how to finish that sentence. She did mean to ask. She does want to know. "It's just something that - I've been wondering for a long time," she explains, coming closer. "But if you don't want to talk about it right now, I understand, Rick. I-"

"No, no," he says slowly, turning to her. "You're right. It's a... It's a legitimate question." The smile he gives her is a little forced, but at least he's trying. "Let me finish that sandwich and then we'll talk, okay?"

She nods. While he busies himself with the food Kate reaches inside the cabinet for another cup, moves over to the machine to make herself an espresso. They sit at the table together, each on a side of the same corner, and Beckett laces her fingers with his, rattled by the gravity on his face. "Look, we don't have to talk about this," she offers again, but he shakes his head.

"I'm fine. It's fine." His eyes flick up to hers, something of a smile in them. "I can't ask you to move in with me and then refuse to answer this kind of questions, you know? Wouldn't make sense."

She quirks her lips at him. "Didn't think you were concerned about making sense, Castle."

He hums, bobs his head. "Sometimes."

Kate picks up her half sandwich, giving him a moment to gather his words, and as she bites into it she realizes she's actually hungry. "Oh, that's amazing," she says around her mouthful, her eyes fluttering closed as she swallows. "Wow. I needed that."

He smiles at her, more genuine this time. "I'm glad you like it." His fingers tighten briefly around hers, and he clears his throat. "So. Meredith."

Kate listens to his story with the same attention she would give a murder witness, nods once or twice when he says something she'd sort of figured out on her own. Meredith's cheating on him comes as a shock though, and Kate grips his fingers as sorrow tangles in her throat. God, no wonder he filed for divorce.

When he falls silent she lifts their joined hands and slowly kisses his knuckle. "I'm sorry," she breathes, moves on to the next one.

"It was a long time ago," he says, but the grief is there, is real in his eyes.

"Still. She took a vow, Castle. She married you, she gave birth to Alexis. She should've made you guys come first." Kate turns his hand into hers, presses her lips to the soft inside of his palm.

"She didn't mean to hurt us. That's what I tell myself. She just - she doesn't feel things the way we do, and she has no idea. That's it. She has no idea."

There's not much to say to that. Kate strokes her thumb over his palm, lets the silence wash over them, cool and soothing. "I'd never cheat on you," she declares quietly after a while, thinking he might need to hear it. "Never, Rick."

He looks at her, his lips parting into a slow smile, his eyes bright. "I know. I trust you."

Her heart tap-dances in her chest, the air stilling for a second in her lungs. "I trust you, too," she manages to rasp when she remembers how to breathe, and she thinks maybe she doesn't need to ask about Gina after all.


	27. Chapter 27

Castle sits at the kitchen table, his phone resting in front of him. He's tried to make that call twice already, but each time his courage failed him before it could even ring on the other end.

He shifts his gaze to the window, the thin white clouds tangled like cotton threads in the pale blue sky. Kate is outside running, and right now he'd give anything to be jogging at her side, watching the rhythmic sway of her ponytail across the white column of her neck. But she didn't ask him to come, and he didn't offer. He's been watching her grow restless, the thrumming energy in her lean body needing an out that the Hamptons can't provide; he knows she'll want to leave before long. He's giving her space in the hope that he can make it last some more, that their little bubble can remain unbroken for another few days.

Castle is scared of what happens when they leave the Hamptons. Scared that she will leave him too. It's silly; it's irrational. He knows.

With a sigh he turns back to his phone, grabs it in a sudden fit of bravery. _Third time's the charm_, Kate once told him, and it must be true because this time he brings the phone to his ear and waits for the call to come through. For Kyra to pick up.

And she does, amazingly.

"Rick Castle," she says, sounding surprised but not displeased, he thinks. "I was starting to think I'd never hear from you again." There's teasing in her voice, but he recognizes the truth buried underneath and he mentally thanks Kate for her advice.

"It's good to hear your voice, too," he says with a smile, pushing himself off his chair. "You sound-" _happy_, he nearly says, and then he wonders if he's even allowed to blurt out that kind of thing.

"Not as wretchedly miserable as you'd imagined?" Kyra finishes with that bright laugh of hers. "I get by, yeah. You sound pretty good yourself."

He opens his mouth as he wanders into the living room, but he can't think of something to say. She's so gracious - _they_'re so gracious, Kyra and Kate both - and he's not sure how he ever convinced either of these women to give him a shot. Let alone the two of them. "I'm sorry I didn't call," he starts slowly, shocked into honesty by the realization that he just doesn't compare. "I thought, I don't know. That you didn't really want to hear from me. That I'd only be making things worse."

"I'm a big girl, Rick. If I tell you to call me, I mean it."

"I know. I - I see that now. And Kate told me-" He stops in front of the window, closes his eyes. Shit, how stupid can he be-

"Well, Kate's a smart woman," Kyra says, sounding distinctly amused. "I'm glad whatever she said made you decide to call me."

"She said I shouldn't make decisions for you," he explains, since apparently it's okay to talk about Kate. "That I couldn't know what it was you wanted until I actually asked. Or well, called."

Kyra hums on the phone. "As I said. Smart woman. I take it she's doing better then?"

He nods, leans back so his ass rests against the back of the couch. "Yeah, yeah. She's doing pretty great, actually. You should see her; she looks like the detective who worked the case at your wedding. If you ran into her tomorrow, you'd never be able to tell she spent the last two years locked up and..." There are things that he still can't bring himself to say lightly, and he doubts Kyra wants to hear it anyway. He should probably have stopped talking already.

"How are _you _doing?" she asks, proving him wrong again, proving how much she cares.

"Good," he says. Kate he can talk about for hours, but his feelings- "I'm - fine. Yeah."

"Rick." The gentle reproof in Kyra's voice makes him sigh.

"I'm okay, really. We've, um. We've been going to therapy together, Kate and I. I think that's helped-"

"I'm sorry, say that again? _Therapy_? You?"

"What? What's wrong with therapy?" he says defensively, standing up again and walking back to the window. How long has it been since Kate left?

"Oh, _I_ don't think there's anything wrong with going to someone for help. But I do remember a certain twenty-one-year-old writer going on and on about how _it was stupid_ and _if you couldn't solve your own problems then it wasn't gonna help to have someone solve them for you_, that kind of thing. Ring any bells?"

Castle wrenches his eyes from the beach, runs a hand through his hair. Actually-

"I think it was my friend Kit who'd just started seeing someone, and I mentioned it and it all - went downhill from there. That was one of our worst fights, Rick. You really don't remember?"

"I, um, I do," he says sheepishly. "Now that you mention it. I was a little bit of an asshole, wasn't I?"

Kyra laughs. "You were young. We both were. It's nice to hear you've changed your mind since."

He smiles, runs distracted fingers over the middle shelf of his bookcase. He didn't realize how much he'd missed Kyra until he heard her voice on the phone. "Enough about me," he says. "How's your life been? Have you finally given in to your darker impulses and bought an untraceable, undetectable poison to pour in your mother's brandy? I promise I won't tell."

He can practically hear her shake her head at him. "I won't say I haven't been tempted, but lately I don't know what's happened - she's gone soft on me. Barely one or two snide comments a day. I'm almost worried about her health."

He chuckles, finds it impossible to picture Mrs. Blaine as anything less than redoubtable.

"In other news," Kyra goes on, her voice threaded with a subtle kind of nervousness, "Greg and I are speaking again."

Castle's eyebrows arch; he curls his left hand over the back of his favorite armchair. "Wow. How did that happen?"

"I'm not even sure. I had some stuff of his mixed in with mine that he was always supposed to come by and collect, but he never did. I assumed he didn't care, and then last week he shows up late one night asking for his Sinatra CDs. He was... I don't know, Rick. I think he'd had a bad day at work, and he didn't want to fight. He seemed really tired. So I offered him a drink and we talked, and it was - it was good. The best conversation we'd had in about two years."

Castle takes a long breath in, weighs his words. "Well. I'm happy for you, that Greg seems to have finally gotten his head out of his ass." And then he shuts his mouth before anything else can make it out, anything like _are you sure_ or _be careful_ or _he's only going to hurt you._

But Kyra's smart, of course, and she hears what he's not saying. "Don't worry, I'm not making anything of it. I don't even know what _he_ wants, and I don't want to be making the same mistakes over and over. There's a reason we got a divorce, you know? So we'll see. We had a good talk, and right now that's enough for me."

"Look at you all grown-up," Rick says, that soft feeling in his chest that he always gets when talking to Alexis. A tight curl of pride and tenderness.

Kyra gives a little sigh. "I miss you, Rick," she says with that trademark openness of hers.

He parts his lips, startled, and lets himself drop into his armchair. "I miss you too," he admits softly.

She makes a humming sound on the other end. "I should let you go. I've got stuff to do, and I'm sure you wanna get back to Kate. It was great talking to you. Don't wait three months next time, okay?"

"Hey, I'm not the only one responsible here. You've got my number too as I recall. In fact, I think it would only be fair if _you _were the one to do the calling next time. Otherwise I'm gonna start thinking this is a one-way relationship, Kyra Blaine. That's not really what you want, is it?" He's ranting a little, he knows, but he's not ready to let her go just yet.

"All right. I'll call you then. Oh, and Rick? That thing Kate told you about letting me make my own decisions?"

"Yeah?"

"She might've been talking about me, but my guess is it applies to her, too."

Castle frowns, sits up. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling I had. Maybe it's none of my business. Anyway, I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

He starts to argue, but she's already hung up. Castle huffs and stares at his phone, leans back into the seat.

He lets Beckett make her own decisions.

Doesn't he?

* * *

When Kate comes back from her run, breathless and sweaty and feeling so damn good, there's nothing she can do to escape Castle's bear hug. He's standing in her way, giving her that warm, emotional look, and before she can try to sidestep him he's already there, his arms around her waist and his mouth at her ear.

She cringes - she's already too hot, her body sticky and calling for a shower - but even though he has to feel it he doesn't let go, doesn't back off. He just holds on to her until she has no other choice but to soften in his embrace, rest her forehead to his shoulder.

"You're so good to me," he murmurs then, the love and certainty in his voice making her heart flutter. "So good to me, Kate."

She feels slightly less than good at the moment, having spent the past sixty seconds searching for a way to get him off her without hurting his feelings, so she brushes her lips to his neck in apology and question both. "What did I do?"

"Told me to call Kyra," he says happily, and Kate's glad that he can't see her face right now.

She's not jealous. She's not. She's a strong, confident, attractive woman.

The only problem is, Kyra is all those things too.

With the added bonus that she didn't spend the last two years in the hands of Jerry Tyson.

"I didn't realize how much I needed it," Rick goes on, blissfully unaware of Kate's conflicted feelings. "How good it would be to hear her voice and know she's doing okay. But you saw that, because you see everything, and you told me. And that, Kate - that's what makes you extraordinary."

She closes her eyes, struggles against the tears. If only he knew, if only he knew how far from extraordinary she is.

"I'm glad it helped," she says, somehow managing to keep her voice from breaking. "But I really, really need to shower now, Castle."

"Of course." He lets go of her immediately, that adorably sheepish look on his face, and without thinking Kate rises on tiptoe and presses her mouth to his, hard and sure.

"I love you," she tells him when she drops back down, unsure where the words come from but only knowing that she has to claim him, mark him. Hers.

His eyes stare back into hers, that _forever _promise written in them, and for a moment Kate's chest eases and she can breathe again.

* * *

"The reason I wanted the two of you here together," Dr. Simmons explains as she sits down in front of them that afternoon, her light grey dress almost matching the color of the seat, " is that during your individual sessions you've both expressed the desire to bring up certain things to the other person. I want to give you a chance to do this here, in a neutral, open space." Her clear blue eyes turn to Beckett. The whole thing's starting to feel like a setup. "Kate, would you like to go first?"

And there it is. Great.

Kate glances at Castle, finds a thin, nervous smile on his face. "I'm, ah. I'm not sure-"

"Would you rather have me sum up the main things we talked about that you said you'd like to discuss with Rick? Because I can do that too-"

"No! No. No, that's - that's fine," Kate says quickly, narrowing her eyes at Dr. Simmons. The woman's face doesn't betray anything - the very image of professionalism - but Beckett can still tell when she's being played. "I'll do it." She takes a deep breath, drops her eyes to her hands in her lap. "Okay. Um. Castle, I... I know that you love me. You've given me your house to recover in and so much more that I can't even put into words, and I know you don't want me to pay you back-" she darts a glance at him, a quick smile "-and I guess that's a good thing because I don't think I ever could."

"Kate," he murmurs, reaching for her hand, but Emily makes a soft reproving sound.

"Let her finish, Rick."

Beckett strokes her fingers over his - slowly, deliberately, her way to tell her therapist _I can bend the rules too_ - and she chooses her words. "I know what you do for me, Rick. You take my life and you lighten it up, you make it fun, you make it colorful and bright. You make me laugh. And sometimes I can't help but wonder what I do for you."

She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, holds her breath, but Castle's reaction isn't anything she expected.

He laughs.

He laughs, that full belly sound and his whole face crinkling, and Kate looks up at him in incomprehension. Maybe a tinge of hurt too. He sobers up the moment he sees that look, but his gaze holds hers, so warm and tender that her chest tightens. "What you do for me." He seems to think that it's all some kind of joke. "Beckett, if I start making that list we'll still be here tomorrow."

She huffs and looks away, can't believe he's trying to talk his way out of this one. This is what she gets for thrusting her trembling heart onto his open hands?

"You challenge me," she hears, and Castle's voice is so raw, so _real_ that it takes her a second to recognize it. "You don't let me get away with any of the crap I pulled before I met you. You make me laugh; you make me think. You make me want things I thought I was over and done with. You - anchor me. You're my solid ground, Kate, my best friend. I can count on you, and that's something I've never had before outside of my family. You make me better, because you _deserve_ better. Because you won't settle for less. You surprise me all the time. You... You dazzle me. Should I keep going?"

She's not breathing. Her mind is going in a dozen different directions at once, wishing Dr. Simmons recorded the sessions because already the words are scattering away, too many of those deep, rich, golden words for her mind to hang onto them all, and when she finally speaks she's got absolutely no control over her own mouth.

"If I am all of those things then why won't you have sex with me?"

* * *

Castle stares at her.

It hurts. It hurts that this is what she wants to use his words for - turn them against him and make it all about sex when it's so much more, when he's never been so honest about his feelings for her.

Something flitters across her eyes, regret maybe (that's what he wants to believe) but she doesn't take her words back. She just waits for the answer he doesn't want to give. Not with Emily Simmons in the room.

Fine. If this is how she wants to play it. Fine.

"You flinch," he says, detaching the words. "Every time I touch you. There's always this split second when you recoil, and you try to pretend like it's not there; I don't know if you think I can't feel it. But I'm not stupid, Kate. I know there's stuff you haven't told me. I know what your silence's like, remember? Your silence is an old friend of mine." She blinks at that, parts her mouth like she wants to say something, but he doesn't let her. "I'm not having sex with you until I know everything. Until I'm sure I'm not going to accidentally hurt you. And nothing you say or do is going to change my mind about it."

She looks at him intently, her dark eyes shimmering. There's a long beat - or it could just be seconds, it's always hard to tell when he's looking at her - and then she says, "So it's not about Kyra."

He frowns. "What?"

"I thought maybe - you were still thinking about Kyra, when we tried to..." She cuts herself off, comes as close to blushing as Kate Beckett ever will, and he feels a perverse pleasure because _she'_s the one who brought up this stuff in front of Dr. Simmons.

But the truth burns in his throat, longing to get out. "When I've got you in my arms, Kate, I couldn't think about another woman even if I tried to."

Her lashes flutter as she looks away, the corner of her pursed mouth lifting up into a tight, heartbreaking smile. He wants to reach out, curl a hand around her wrist and bring her against his chest, but Dr. Simmons's presence stops him. He glances at the woman and she reads him like a book, stands up from her seat. "I'll give you two a few minutes alone," she says. Castle listens to the fading sound of her footsteps, eases closer to Kate the moment he hears the door close.

"Beckett," he murmurs, and shit, she's crying. Her fingers come up to wipe her cheeks swiftly, once, twice; he snags her chin gently and turns her face towards him. "Hey, hey."

"I'm sorry," she rasps, gives a trembling little laugh. "I know it's stupid. It's just that I am - damaged goods, and Kyra-"

"Kate," he cuts her off softly, his chest sliced open. He rests his forehead to hers, nudges her nose, kisses a remaining tear. "I just want you," he says, borrowing her words from long ago. His lips are so close to hers that he can feel the hitch in her warm breath. "No one else. I just want you."

She nods sharply, presses her mouth to his in a brisk, touching kiss. Her fingers come up and thread through his hair, her palm soft at the back of his neck, and he closes his eyes, lets himself have this moment.

He's pretty sure she needs it too.

* * *

When Dr. Simmons comes back into the room, Kate's had time to compose herself. Castle's hand is clasped around hers, large and strong, and it gives her all the strength she needs to bring up the one other thing that really matters.

"I want to go back to Canada," she says, cutting right to the chase, her eyes on the therapist rather than Castle. "I thought that burning the letter would help resolve things, would help me move past everything that's happened, but I... I still dream about the house. I still wake up sometimes and I think Castle is the dream, not the reverse."

"And you think going back there would help?" Emily asks, tilting her head.

"I think it could, yeah. I was unconscious when the FBI got me out of there, and the first time I woke up after that I was already in DC. It didn't - it felt like there was no... connection. Like one of them had to be a dream, me being in DC or me being in Canada. I couldn't - I don't know, reconcile the two, if that makes sense."

"Too many changes at once for your mind to adjust. I see." The blue-eyed woman pauses, considers. "It's not a bad idea, Kate. It might help to go back and look at the house you were kept in from a free person's perspective. I'd suggest taking Rick with you though. He can act as a reminder of who you are now, of the way you've come since then."

Beckett glances at Castle, who's being uncharacteristically quiet. He's watching her, blue eyes serious, thoughtful, and she finds herself worrying her bottom lip.

"You wanna go back to New York after that trip to Canada, don't you?" he says finally. "You're not planning on coming back here."

Ah. That. "I was gonna come to that," she admits, wishing he didn't have the ability to read her mind sometimes. "But yes. I want to go back to work. I know I'll have to pass both physical and psych evaluations anyway, so it might not happen for a while, but at least I'll be in the city. I think I'm ready for that."

"I agree," Dr. Simmons says with a smile. "Change will be good for you. You're not one to sit around and do nothing; actually, I'm surprised you've lasted this long here."

Kate chuckles, relief loosening her chest at being given what she wants without having to put up a fight. When she looks at Castle again he seems like he's bracing himself, but the tenderness in his eyes finishes to turn her insides to mush. "Is that okay with you?" she asks even though she can't think of a reason why he wouldn't be dying to get back to the loft. He's only here for her, after all - without Kate Beckett he'd still be in the city, surrounded with his family and friends (well, minus Alexis, who is due to fly back in two weeks).

"I go where you go," Rick says, squeezing her fingers. "Wherever you want me, Kate."

She opens her mouth to say _no_, say it's unhealthy, that he should be where _he_ wants to be, but one of the things therapy's taught her is that she and Castle love differently. His way is the grand gestures way, the romantic declarations, the airborne marriage proposals. And she's okay with that; she's okay with the fact that they each find magic in completely different places.

So she says nothing and instead runs her thumb over the back of his hand, gives him an arch smile.

"I hope your passport's still valid, Castle."


	28. Chapter 28

The airport is bright and loud and busy like all airports are. Castle doesn't want to leave Kate alone, he really doesn't, but she insists that she'll just make a quick stop by the bathroom and meet him at the check-in counter.

"I have my phone," she says, using that calm, reasonable tone that makes him feel like a five-year-old. "And you have yours. Nothing's gonna happen, Castle."

He doesn't have a valid answer to that, of course, so he gets to watch her walk away with his heart in his throat and force his feet into the opposite direction. She's right. Nothing to be afraid of. She took the car alone more than once to go to therapy in the Hamptons, and she was fine. She'll be fine. He knows better than to worry about a trip to the bathroom.

He finds the Air Canada counters pretty easily, but check-in for their flight isn't open yet, and neither is the baggage drop. "Just wait another ten minutes," the woman tells him with an unwavering smile.

Seriously. What good is checking in online if they have to wait to drop their suitcase?

Castle sighs and thanks the woman, moves out of the way. He finds a pillar and rests his back to it, finally releases his hold on the handle of their suitcase. His fingers hurt when he works them.

He shouldn't be so nervous. They've done everything right, left early so they'd have plenty of time to get here, chatted with the cabbie and left the man a generous tip. Kate is on top of things, has it all mapped out, their itinerary and reservations at the hotel in Timmins, the car rental.

And she's the one paying. He wasn't too keen on that, but she's not asked once about paying him back for the therapy, for their life in the Hamptons, and he figures if she can make an effort then he can too. Can at least give her this.

There are lots of people walking around, heading towards the counters or the security check. His eyes linger on a couple waiting in line, purposefully not looking at each other, like maybe they just had a bad fight and they're not over it yet. The man's stiff shoulders confirm his theory, and Castle lets his gaze drift to the right, where a sixty-something woman is talking in soft tones to a little girl, three or four years old, her very dark hair split into pigtails. The kid sees Castle looking and smiles at him, brazen and adorable, something exotic in her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that reminds him of Beckett.

"Hey," Kate says, appearing out of nowhere and startling him a little. She rests a shoulder to the pillar, right next to his, and the way she reaches for his hand - so casual and spontaneous - has warmth spreading softly in his chest. "Line for the bathroom was longer than I expected. You check us in yet?"

"No," he says, assessing the look on her face. Her cheeks are tinged with pink like she hurried back to him, her mouth parted, her breathing fast, but her eyes are clear. Sharp. "Check-in opens in five minutes, and apparently we can't drop off our luggage before that happens." He bites back a comment about how different things would be if they were flying business class. Truth is, it's his fault their suitcase is so big. He's the one who dragged Kate into The North Face and insisted they needed appropriate clothing, and he doesn't regret it.

"Poor baby," she teases, seeing right through him. "Having to wait five minutes is hard on you, huh, Castle? You think you're gonna live, or should I have 911 on speed dial just in case?"

He huffs. "Your concern is touching as always, Beckett." He'll be fine, really - the flights are short anyway, only an hour and a half each. The longest part of the trip is the layover in Toronto, two hours, but the airport there is modern, spacious, has free wifi too. Not the worst place to be stuck in.

"Doesn't look the plane will be full," Kate observes, glancing at the Air Canada counters. "Not that many people in line, and there's a flight for Vancouver leaving before ours."

He hums. "Could be a small plane," he says for the sake of argument, but he agrees with her. It's eleven in the morning, middle of the week, and it's _February_. Nobody in their right mind would be heading to Ontario where it's at least twenty degrees colder than here.

Kate's knee bumps into his, rouses him from his thoughts. "You've got a fan," she says with that cute smirk that makes him want to kiss her breathless. But he follows her eyes and sees that the little girl has stepped closer, is now watching them intently, her small hands pressed to her cheeks.

"Ana," the older woman - her grandmother? - calls. "Ana, come back here, sweetheart. We have to go soon."

The child half-turns and then glances back at Castle, a shy but playful spark in her dark eyes. Rick waves, twists his face into a grimace that he hopes is worth it, and Ana runs back to her grandmother with a giggle.

When he turns back he finds Kate staring at him, her face softer, more luminous than he's ever seen it. "What?" he says.

She shakes her head, squeezes his hand. "Nothing. Come on, let's go. Counter's open." She laces their fingers and pulls him after her, and although he's got the suitcase and she has her own handbag, although they have to skirt the family of five standing in their way and it's really not very convenient to hold hands in an airport, she doesn't let go of him.

* * *

They find their seats quickly - Castle was right, it's not a huge plane - and he offers her the window seat, gallant man that he is. Kate thanks him with a smile, a brush of her fingers to his side, and she slides into the small space.

At least it's just the two of them. She chose the seats online, deliberately went for the ones at the back of the plane, a little isolated. She's confident that she can do this - she's been driving for months now and the cramped space, the seat belt are no longer issues - but that doesn't mean she's going to be able to relax, enjoy any of it.

"You okay?" Rick murmurs, their thighs touching now that he's seated next to her.

She lets the click of the seat belt be her answer, drops her head to his shoulder, just long enough for a kiss pressed to the fabric of his shirt. "You gonna tell me a story to distract me?" she asks, her mouth curling up as she raises an eyebrow.

His love for her leaks out of his eyes, a slow grin splitting his face and leaving her breathless. "Why, Kate Beckett. Are you asking me for a dirty story?"

Her cheeks are warm; she hopes she's not blushing. "No, Castle. If I did that, you wouldn't live through the flight."

Amusement dances across his face. "Oh, _I_ wouldn't live through the flight, huh? What about you, Beckett? What makes you think you'd fare any better?"

She presses her mouth into a thin line and the words come before she can stop them. "Got more practice than you do."

The joy disappears from his eyes, just like that, and he blinks once, twice, clearly trying to get a handle on the brutal mood shift. She bites on her bottom lip, her eyes fluttering closed in regret, and her hand finds Castle's on the arm rest.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," she murmurs, so mad at herself for ruining that lovely moment. "I don't know why I-"

"Don't worry about it," he says, trying even though she can hear the strain in his voice. "It's okay. We're - it's okay."

Silence stretches between them as Kate looks through the window, the grey buildings of terminal 7 visible past the wing of the plane, the overcast sky reflected in the windows. The background music breaks so the captain can greet the passengers and announce their imminent departure, and the flight attendants start walking down the aisles and checking all seat belts. Castle's fingers grip hers tighter and Beckett looks up to find a small, hesitant smile on his face. "Think I'm gonna ask for a glass of Scotch," he says. "You want one?"

Scotch. The burn of alcohol down her throat, the welcome looseness in her limbs. "Please," she answers. The plane starts moving, the pilot maneuvering them away from the terminal and towards the runway, and Kate takes a deep breath.

It's gonna be okay.

* * *

She's a little pale by the time they land in Toronto; Castle can't be sure if it's something to do with coming back to Canada or if it's just the turbulences that have made half the passengers sick. He's flown across the US enough times to be pretty much immune to anything short of crashing, but even he's got to admit that that flight was pretty intense. He's never seen so many people throw up either.

Kate hasn't been sick, but there's a faint greenish tinge to her skin, and when the seatbelt sign switches off and she gets to her feet she's a little less stable than he'd like. Castle reaches out a hand to steady her, but she bats it away, gives a small shake of her head. "I'm okay," she rasps, sounding the opposite.

Still he backs off, grabs their coats from the overhead compartment, watches her from the corner of his eye as he starts walking up the aisle. She's moving slowly, gripping the back of seats as she takes her steps; he makes himself look away because otherwise he'll try to help again.

She's a grown woman. She'll ask for help if she needs it.

But they make their way out of the plane without any incident, the blue carpet giving way to the sleek tiles of the airport under his feet, and when they come into the main concourse Kate curls a light hand around his elbow. "I need to eat something," she says, her face white in the harsh lighting. "How about we sit down for a while? We have two hours and they're transferring the luggage for us."

"Yeah, sure," he agrees eagerly, looking around for a place. There's a coffee shop not twenty yards away. "What do you think, Kate? Would you care for a grande skimmed latte, two pumps sugar free vanilla?"

Her smile is all the answer he needs. She gives him a soft look, tender and grateful both, and he can't resist leaning in, pressing a kiss to the line of her cheekbone. "You're gorgeous," he murmurs against her skin, and he feels the little laugh that ripples through her, sees the shyness that comes over her eyes.

"Get me that coffee, Castle, and then we'll talk."

* * *

The second flight is quieter. Kate drifts in and out of sleep, wakes up with her heart pounding and her mouth tasting of sock. She shifts in the seat, chilled to the bone; it takes a moment for her to remember where she is.

Castle is asleep next to her, she sees when she turns. His head is tilted back, his mouth open, and his soft snores bring a laugh bubbling through her chest, all the relief she needs. She pushes her knee closer to his, anchoring herself in his warmth, and she drops her head back to the window, watches the ray of sunlight that filters through the pulled-down shade.

She doesn't try closing her eyes again.

* * *

They have to stand in line for maybe ten minutes to get the rental car. Castle yawns and rocks onto the balls of his feet, rubs a hand over his eye. He feels like whining. Landing must have woken him right in the middle of a dream; he knows that, rationally, it's just his body demanding more sleep.

Doesn't help with the whininess though.

But Kate knows him. She's not letting him talk to anyone; she was the one to direct them through Timmins airport, to grab their suitcase from the conveyor belt, and now that they're waiting she's got her hand stroking up and down his arm, a soothing, drugging rhythm. Every time he opens his mouth to complain she's there first, pointing out a guy with a crazy reindeer hat or recounting that weird conversation she had in the bathroom with a woman who seemed convinced Beckett was her Croatian granddaughter.

Kate's _handling _him, and although it pains him to admit it, she's doing it so well he's almost enjoying it.

Oh, who is he kidding? He _is _enjoying it.

"It's four now," Kate says, checking her phone. "The hotel's not that far from here, so I think we should go there first, get the key, settle in. You want to call Alexis, right? And I really, really want a shower, so I'll do that while you talk to her-"

He cuts her off with his mouth, kisses her slowly, a little decadent; he waits until she's lowered her guard to stroke his tongue along her bottom lip, makes her open up for him. She lets out that barely-there moan at the back of her throat, her body lifting up into his, and for a glorious moment there's only Kate Beckett, the taste of her, the silky feel of her hair under his fingers.

When he steps back to admire his handiwork, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes closed. The dark sweep of her lashes on her cheeks makes his heart flip. "We're a team," he says softly, somehow awed by the fact. They were always a team - and a great one at that - but he still forgets sometimes, loses sight of it. How well they work together.

Kate smiles, and the look on her face makes him think that she needed the reminder too. "A team," she echoes, sneaking another kiss to his lips. "Yes. Partners, Castle."

Partners.

* * *

"I don't understand. This is where it should be." Kate stops at a red light and grabs the printed directions from Castle's lap, blows out a frustrated breath. He watches the tense line of her profile, the jut of her jaw, wonders if he should say something. "We turned right and then left. This should be Norman Street. Why isn't it Norman Street?"

"Light's green," he points out quietly, grateful that there are only a couple cars behind them and they're apparently more patient that New York drivers.

Beckett sighs and drives on, turning right at the end of the street and pulling over when she gets a chance. She flips on the light inside the car and Castle leans in close to study the directions with her. "Should've printed a map," she mutters under her breath. "Damn it, I knew better than-"

"You wanna try turning the GPS back on?" he suggests, unwilling to let her berate herself. "Maybe it'll be easier now that we're kind of in the center."

"Nope," she says, shaking her head. "That thing got us lost in the first place. I trust my gut more."

Except her gut has failed to lead them to Cedar Meadows Resort and Spa so far. "Okay, well, how about I ask someone on the street? There's gotta be somebody who can give us better directions than these." He nods at her piece of paper.

Kate leans back into her seat, closes her eyes for a second. He's not sure what exactly is going on with her but this whole trip has been about her making decisions, being in control, and getting lost was definitely not part of the plan. "Okay," she relents, giving him an unreadable look. "Sure. Let's try it your way."

He gives her a reassuring smile and grabs his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck. The sun is setting slowly, the whole town licked with gold, but when he steps outside he's instantly chilled.

Wow, fuck. It's _cold_.

He's lucky though - the second guy he asks knows of Cedar Meadows, and is able to tell Castle exactly how to get there from where they are. Rick makes him repeat once, just to be sure he won't get back to Kate and tell her the wrong thing, and then thanks the man and lets him get on with his run.

He jogs back to the car, regretting leaving the hat he bought in the suitcase, and eases back inside, slamming the door shut. "So," he says, sliding his hands out of his pockets and rubbing them together. "Drive straight to Algonquin Boulevard, turn right, go over the bridge. Norman Street will be the second one on our right."

He looks over at Kate but she doesn't look like she's heard him; she's staring at the wheel, her right hand curled on top of it. "You wanna drive?" she asks, something raw in her voice that alerts him.

He hesitates. He'd drive if she asked him to - but there's a subtle difference here. This is Kate Beckett insecure, and despite their months of therapy he's never sure how to deal best with that version of her. "Nah," he says, trying for nonchalant and probably missing the mark. "Too tired. You do it; we're almost there anyway."

Her eyes turn to his. She's been worrying her bottom lip but she releases it slowly, the corner of her mouth quirking up with a tiny smile. "All right," she says, and she starts the car again.

* * *

It's late.

The staff at the Cedar Meadows hotel are very friendly, a little too much for Kate's taste. She and Castle were given an extensive tour of the place, including many anecdotes she really didn't care for, and now that they finally have the key to their room, the suitcase unloaded from the car - it's late.

Night's fallen, a thick kind of darkness that presses to the window, ties knots in her chest.

She wanted to go to the house tonight, get it over with, but now-

"This place's amazing," Castle says behind her, and if she weren't so hung up about going to the house she might bristle at the surprise in his voice. Did he expect her to book them a cheap motel? "And a suite, too. How much money is that, Kate?"

Ha. She spins back to him, can't help the wry smile twisting her lips. "Now you know the feeling."

He sighs. "You're not telling me, are you."

"Not a chance," she says, humming a laugh. She comes closer and wraps her arms around his waist, lets her body sink into his. She's surprised at how good it feels, how much she needs it. "Thought we could both use some relaxation, given what we're here for," she admits, nuzzling at his neck. "Hot tub looks nice, right?"

"Sure does," he agrees with a chuckle. She feels the press of his cheek to her hair, the long breath he lets out. When he speaks again his voice is so very serious. "Are you okay?"

She's lost count of how many times he's asked her that today, but still she nods, presses a kiss to his collarbone. "I wanted to go to the house tonight," she explains. "I thought we'd get here earlier than we did."

He's silent for a moment. "Ah." That single syllable is charged with understanding. "Kate-"

"It's fine," she says, pulling back a little so she can look at him. "We'll just - we'll go tomorrow. All good, Castle." Even if she can feel the prospect looming over her like a dark, malignant storm.

He watches her, something almost sad in his eyes, and brings his hand up to her cheek. She leans into it and closes her eyes. "You don't have to go if you don't want to," he murmurs. "Still plenty of time to change your mind, Kate."

She smiles, shakes her head. "No, I want to. I need to."

He looks at her like he gets it but doesn't like it much, and she sucks in a breath, arches a playful eyebrow at him. Enough of the depressing mood. "Not going now means we have the whole night ahead of us, Rick. So how about you come and try that hot tub with me, huh?"

He grins slowly, his face lighting up with it, and he's about to say something when he looks at the suitcase in alarm. "I didn't pack any swimsuits. You didn't tell me - why didn't you tell me? Beckett, I know you like bathing in the nude, but there _are_ other people here and surely they'll never let us-"

She can't hold back her laugh any longer. He looks at her with narrowed, suspicious eyes, and she just has to rise on tiptoe and kiss that pursed mouth of his. "Relax," she whispers. "I got us covered."


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: **So, um. This chapter is kind of on the heavy side, content-wise. Just - be warned. I'm not sure if I should switch the rating to M, because it's not exactly explicit, but it's still - adult themes being brought up I guess. And now that I've made you all recoil in fear, I hope you have fun reading! :)

* * *

Castle is warm. Pleasantly warm. There's a body curled into his, so soft, the press of a cotton-clad calf against his leg and the whisper of fingers at his chest; he hums and burrows deeper under the covers, content to just stay there.

When at last he peels an eye open all he can see is the tumble of Kate's dark hair on the pillow, the stark line of a closed lid. Still asleep then. He smiles to himself - it's not so often he gets to see Beckett sleep - and he stretches lazily, moves back as much as he can without jostling her.

She's got half her face mashed into the pillow, her one visible hand fisted around the sheets. Her mouth is slack, half-open, her expression so trusting that his heart stills in his chest.

They had fun last night. They tried the sauna, the steam room, spent a fair amount of time in the hot tub flirting and teasing each other. Kate packed swimsuits without him seeing, the little minx, and hers was _not_ the demure one-piece she used in the Hamptons. It could still be called a one-piece, he supposes, although that wouldn't quite cover the sexy swell of her breasts in that dark fabric, the black strips of nylon that leave entirely too much skin bare at her sides.

So, yeah. They kissed and touched and for once Kate didn't try to take things further, so of course he didn't push - but he did take a cold shower before they left the spa.

Beckett mumbles something as she starts twitching towards consciousness, her lashes fluttering; her hand uncurls and inches towards him, so he touches her delicately, stunned as always that someone so strong, so determined as Detective Kate Beckett can also be so adorable.

"Hey," he murmurs, watching a smile come to life on her face, the awareness that unfurls in her eyes. So green this morning - barely any trace of gold or brown in them.

"Hey, Castle," she hums back, stroking her thumb along his palm. "Time is it?"

He rolls over and reaches out a hand to grab his phone, nearly knocks it off the bedside table instead. "Oops," he mutters, more careful the second time, and he hears her laugh, quiet and beautiful. "Seven forty-four," he announces. Wow. Early.

She makes a pleased sound in her throat that travels straight through him. "Good. Breakfast's at eight thirty, so we should manage to be out of here by nine."

Nine. Castle wrinkles his nose. Nine means getting out of bed _now_, showering and getting dressed and all those things that sound so unattractive when Kate's lying in bed with him.

She grins at him, rests a knowing hand on his chest. "I'll go first," she says. "You can laze around for ten more minutes."

Without thinking he layers his fingers over her wrist, pouts. "Not so much fun if you're not in bed with me," he complains. Kate's smile dims, her eyes widening ever so slightly. He can practically feel her hesitation, the words she wants to say - _You could hop in the shower too._ "Hey, I'll live," he says quickly before she can, letting her go with a brush of his hand. "Go on, Beckett. And hurry. You know I need time to make myself pretty."

A small smile flickers across her face and she cuts her eyes down to the bed, retreats; he watches her disappear into the bathroom with a taste of regret in his mouth.

* * *

"Detective Beckett?"

Kate startles at the name, looks up to see a young cop - he looks twenty-six at best - walk towards her with a friendly smile. He's got warm brown eyes, broad shoulders, and she's never seen him before. "Agent Shaw told me you were coming," he explains, holding out a hand that she shakes mechanically.

He gestures them inside and they follow him into the Timmins police station, towards a desk at the back. Kate catches more than a few glances directed at them, but instead of averting their eyes the cops smile at her, give her little nods. How much do they know about her?

"I'm Blair, by the way," the young cop says. "I mean, Constable Walker, but you can call me Blair. It's so nice to meet you."

"Um, you too," Kate says slowly. "And this is-"

"Richard Castle, right? Sorry, I forget my manners." The two men shake hands and then Blair - Constable Walker - grabs a set of keys in the top drawer of his desk. "Shall we head out?"

Kate exchanges a look with Castle, unsure what's going on here. Jordan told her on the phone that the FBI was still holding onto the house for evidence, but that the Timmins cops had a key as well, and that she would call ahead and grant Kate permission to use those. Beckett expected to be asked for ID, maybe have to sign some kind of legal document, but not... this.

Constable Walker comes outside with them, gestures towards an unmarked car. "That's mine. Is your car close by?" Kate nods and he goes on. "Great, so you can follow me. I'll show you to the house - it's lost in the woods, pretty hard to find - and then let your make your way back, if that's okay. Whenever you're done, just drop the keys back at the station. There'll be someone around."

"That's - really nice of you," Kate says, "but you don't have to go to so much trouble for us. I'm sure we'd be fine with just the address-"

"It's no trouble," the cop replies, smiling. "I'll be back here in half an hour. No problem at all." And he strides off to his car, leaving Beckett and Castle to follow in their rental.

"Well," Rick says. "I guess it's true what they say about Canadians being friendly."

* * *

They end up on a narrow road that twists and turns and dips into the woods, passing enough forks that Beckett is grateful for the cop leading the way. After about fifteen minutes Walker slows down and pulls over, rolls down his window. Kate stops next to him and mirrors his move despite Castle's hissed protests - _it's too cold, Beckett_.

"You go straight from here," Walker says, handing her the keys, "and you'll be at the house in two minutes. I gotta head back - just got called on some neighbor complaint - but I wanted you to know, Detective Beckett, that it's been a pleasure meeting you. We're all very impressed that you had the guts to come back here after what happened. You're one hell of a cop, if you ask me."

Kate gapes at him, finds no words. It takes Castle's nudge at her ribs to get her talking again. "Thanks," she says, her voice faltering. "Thank you. You guys are pretty amazing yourselves."

The constable takes the compliment with a nod and a quiet smile, and he rolls his window back up. Kate drives on, a little dazed, and just like Walker said it's only a minute before they reach the house. It stands in the middle of a small clearing, surrounded by dark, looming pines; she parks as close as she can and when she looks over at Castle he's watching her, something soft lingering in his eyes. "What?"

"You're a celebrity here," he says, and she realizes that this thing on his face is pleasure, pride maybe. "Kate Beckett, the woman who lived."

She huffs a tiny laugh, shakes her head.

"It's true," Castle insists, obviously spurred on by her rebuttal. "You see the way he looked at you? Like you were a hero, Kate. Because you are. Not just to me, but to these people who've never even heard of Nikki Heat or Rick Castle. It's _you _they admire, and for the right reasons."

She leans back into the headrest, reaches out to tangle her fingers with his. "I'd rather be known for Nikki Heat," she murmurs, giving a little squeeze before she lets go of his hand and opens her door.

The cold air makes her buck up, eats away at her sadness to leave only the strong, resistant core of her, and she stares at the house with calm, assessing eyes.

It's smaller than she thought. Only one floor, with maybe some kind of attic under the roof. There's a flight of stairs leading up to the front porch, the door; it looks like it was once painted white. The overall impression is that of an empty, abandoned place that's slowly falling to pieces; the thought that she could have died in there sends a shiver down Kate's spine.

Why did she come back here?

* * *

Castle sees her circle around the house and wonders if he should follow - then curses himself and jogs after her. Of course he should follow; she brought him here with her, she's trusting him with his. Least he can do is be with her whenever she breaks.

Whenever the stoic facade crumbles down.

The house is so unremarkable that he's having trouble believing this is the place where Tyson kept Kate all this time. He doesn't _want_ to believe it, but Dr. Simmons warned him it would be like this, that he shouldn't try and make sense of things that can't be rationalized. He should only focus on her.

Kate.

She stops at the back of the house and he pauses with her, watches her touch her boot to the rusty iron bars that line a small window - not a window so much as a peephole really. "This is where," she says, her voice remarkably devoid of emotion. "Where I was all this time. My basement."

Castle forgets to breathe for a moment, says nothing. _My basement. _Everything in him rebels at the words.

Beckett keeps moving, brings them back to the front of the house. He notices again the decayed wood, the roof that's halfway to falling apart. Kate takes the keys out of her pocket, walks up the steps to the front door; with the gloves on it's harder to tell if her hand is steady, but she inserts the key in the lock deftly enough.

The door opens with a creak, and despite the many layers that he's wearing Castle shivers. He follows her inside, observing her slow pace, the deliberate way she moves, and he closes the door behind them as softly as he can. The noise reverberates anyway, bounces off the empty walls, and he thinks he can see it run like fingers down the line of her back.

She halts to take off her scarf, her gloves, her hat, and he suddenly notices that the inside of the house isn't much warmer than the outside. "It's freezing," he remarks out loud, going for a neutral tone. Beckett acknowledges his words with a shrug, doesn't turn to him.

"Wasn't this cold when I was here," she says, and he believes her, he does, she's not lying. What good would it do her to lie to him now?

She turns left; he trails after her. The room he finds himself in has the ugliest wallpaper, old-fashioned, tiny flowers that must have been pink once; other than a ceiling lamp that looks like it dates back to the last century, it's strikingly empty. "They must have sold the furniture," Kate says, echoing his thoughts. "There was a table before, chairs. A bookcase over there." She points to the opposite side.

He tries to picture it, tries to picture her in this old, faded setting, but it just won't do. This was the living room then? Did she spend time in here? Before he can ask Kate is already turning around, passing him to go back into the hallway. She opens the opposite door and he sees a tired pattern of black and white tiles on the floor, a wooden cabinet. The kitchen? He abandons the first room somewhat reluctantly, keeps his eyes on Beckett as he walks into the second one - kitchen, he was right. There's a sink, an antique oven showing through the thick layer of dust that covers everything.

Kate just looks around, doesn't touch anything. Her eyes are clear, her jaw tight, but the line of her shoulders is looser than he'd expect; Castle hovers at her back and remains silent, thousands of words swirling in his head and not finding an out.

Beckett's fingers wrap around the doorknob of what he took to be a closet. She pulls it open and instead of shelves he sees stairs, narrow, windowless stairs that descend into darkness. His throat closes up and he nearly jumps when he feels Kate's hand reaching for his, clammy and tight.

"It's just a house," he hears her say, more to herself than to him. "Just any other old house. And the guy who kept you here was just a man. Just a man with a gun."

Is this a trick she learned from Dr. Simmons? Wherever it came from, it helps; Castle is able to take a deep breath before he follows her down.

It's only concrete surrounding them, grey and bare. Down the stairs is a hallway, humidity exuding from the walls, the air cold but oppressive at the same time. Several doors open onto the corridor and he catches sight of a blue and white tiled floor before Kate drags him further down, to a door that still has several bolts and locks on it. "Careful not to hit your head," she warns quietly, lowering hers to get inside.

He bends forward obediently, shuffles in after her. The space is so small; when he stands up he feels like his hair is brushing against the ceiling. In front of him is the minuscule window and its iron bars, and he knows what this place is, he knew from the start, but still his heart freezes at the thought.

Kate stands there motionless, not quite facing him but not facing away either. He can see the pale curve of a cheek, the corner of her mouth, the dark lashes that frame her left eye. "Bed was on this side," she says, motioning to her right. "Decent mattress. Black iron frame. After I tried to escape for the second time I was tied up to it a lot."

Castle closes his eyes, feels his body pitch with nausea.

And then there's her hand at his chest, her arm around his back, the press of her forehead to his cheek. The words at his ear. "Stay with me, Castle."

He breathes in the floral scent of her hair, the shampoo he smelled all over their bathroom this morning, and he rights himself. "Sorry," he rasps. "Here."

There's concern in the green depths of her eyes and he almost loses it there and then, because how can she be _concerned_ about _him_ when she - when she-

"If you can't do it you can go back up," she offers. "Wait for me in the car. I won't be long anyway, I promise. I just need to see the place, just-"

"Hell no," he growls. "You're here, I'm here." She _lived _here for nearly two years, locked up in this tiny basement with a nutcase her only company; Castle's only been here two minutes. So he's going to goddamn man up and be what she needs.

Kate's about to say something when her gaze pauses on a point past his left shoulder. He sees her face harden, the line of her mouth twisting, and he spins around to find - oh. Speakers fixed to the wall in the corner, speakers that must have been what Tyson used to play her the recordings.

The room's empty now except for those, and Castle feels again this great wave of grief washing over him.

When he glances at Kate she's turned to the window, her slim figure facing away from him. She looks lonely and yet so strong, unbreakable; he fumbles to find the words that will bring her back to him.

But she speaks before he does.

"After Tyson shot me," she starts slowly, each word standing out so clearly. "That's when he set up the speakers. He must have done it when I was out, because I just - woke up one day and they were there."

"And you could hear my voice," Castle mutters, his hand instinctively curling into a fist.

"And I could hear your voice," she echoes, sounding much too calm about it. "It wasn't that bad at first - I mean, yes, it hurt and made me miss you even more, but Castle - it was also wonderful." She must hear his grunt of disbelief, because she glances back at him over her shoulder. "I'm serious. I'd had nothing of yours for over a year, only memories to keep me going, and to hear your voice again, your warm, beautiful voice, to hear how much you loved me..."

"Love you," he corrects. "Present tense, Kate."

She gives a little nod, lashes fluttering, turns away again. "I guess you could say it was torture, in a way. But it didn't feel like it. It felt like having you back, having at least one little piece of you. I was grateful for it."

"I would've hated it," he says, shaking his head. "Having your voice but not having you - God, I don't know how you could stand it. It would've have made me nuts."

"It did. At times. But it wasn't-"

She pauses and he can tell she's said more than she intended, that this is the moment she backpedals and goes quiet again.

Except she doesn't. "It wasn't the worst," she says, her voice struggling but still there, still trying. "The worst was this - one time when Tyson put on a recording of us together at your apartment, and then he came in here to watch me. He just sat there, and when we were - when we were right in the middle of it - he came closer and said that he was going to help me forget you. That I would thank him someday."

Everything's gone very still. Castle is only aware of Kate's hand pressed flat against her thigh, of his own jackrabbiting heartbeat, of the taste of fear in his mouth. He doesn't dare breathe, move, speak.

"He. He unzipped my pants, and he got his hand - I tried to fight him off, jerk away, but with the way I was tied up it was-"

_No, no, no_, his brain whispers stubbornly, desperately.

"I couldn't," she says, so definitive, almost matter-of-fact. "So he got his fingers in me and all I could do was pretend it was good, fake it so he would leave me alone."

Castle's world is shattered. A million pieces all over the floor.

"It wasn't - I don't think - he got off on it. It didn't feel like he was enjoying it, more like he was accomplishing a mission. Freeing me from you. I don't know - his thinking is so twisted."

Is. For some reason that use of present tense cuts him like a knife. "Was," he croaks. "_Was _so twisted."

Kate jerks and swivels back to him; her cheeks are glistening. "Yes," she agrees, her lips coming up into a small, joyless smile. "Was."

He looks at her and she looks at him, her words standing between them like a wall that he doesn't know how to even start bringing down. "How many times-?" he breathes out finally, exhausted, ruined.

"Only that once," she says quickly, her eyes too deep, knowing too much. "The other time he - that's when I tried to provoke him into killing me, and then he went out and killed that girl instead."

"And the FBI found you." It no longer sounds like a happy ending.

"Yes." She's watching him closely, like he's a wild animal she doesn't want to scare away. He doesn't know what he's meant to say, how he's supposed to react. He doesn't know anything.

"Please tell me Dr. Simmons knows about this," he finds himself whispering after a long moment. He thought he could do this, share all of her burdens, the darkest of her secrets. But this one - this one is too heavy to bear alone.

"She does," Kate says, still that gentle, pacifying tone. "She's known for a while."

But he hasn't. The one thing he knew was that she was still hiding things from him, that it would take time, but fuck. _Fuck, _Kate. "You tried to-" he chokes on the words, the emotion that overflows from his chest. "You came to bed wearing-"

"Castle." She moves towards him, fluid and graceful, and on that image his brain superimposes the memory he keeps of her in that hospital bed, so pale and fragile and _broken._ He steps back; Beckett stops, hurt flickering across her face. "Please," she says.

Please what? _Please pretend I didn't say anything_?_ Please don't look at me any different_?

He's not sure he can do that. "I asked you," he says, and his stomach coils, pulses. "I asked you if he had-"

"Castle, I'm fine," she cuts him off, taking another step and snatching his hand between hers.

"You're fine," he repeats, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. He tries to get his hand back but his traitorous fingers have already uncurled, seeking the warmth of hers, and it's a lost fight. "You're fine. Right, Kate. Sure. You had a psychopathic serial killer play you tapes of us having sex and - touch you - God, I can't even-"

"This is why I didn't want to tell you." Her fingers are massaging his palm now, sliding between his. "I didn't want to hurt you; I didn't want you to look at me like I was less, like I was-"

"But you _know_ how much you mean to me. You know that I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than hurt you, Kate, and you kept this from me. You kept me in the dark and you came onto me thinking - thinking what exactly?"

She purses her mouth. "That I was an adult responsible for my own choices, Castle. I wanted you - needed you - and I thought making love to you would help. I still do. But you obviously have your own issues with it and I-"

"My own issues?" His voice rises too high, but he doesn't care. "Kate, you-" he can't bring himself to say the words.

"I'm okay," she counters, so serious, her eyes holding his. "I'm working on it. I've been working on it; you know I have. And I'm getting better, thanks to Dr. Simmons, thanks to you. But Castle, I need you to stop being my nurse now. Stop being my guardian, stop being my dad, just be my partner. Trust me. I wanna do this right as much as you do. There's nothing that matters more to me right now, and I'd sooner jump from that bridge again than to wreck things between us. Do you believe me?"

He stares back at her and gives a single, tiny nod, and then - he can't hold it in anymore - he sobs out a breath and feels a tear trail down his face, soon followed by others that he simply can't stop. Can't.

"Oh, don't," Kate whispers, stepping in closer and lifting a hand to wipe at the moisture. "Don't, Rick. Shhh, it's okay, I promise. You gonna make me cry too."

He laughs at that - wants to laugh - but it comes out as more sobs, strangled, pathetic sounds ripped right out of his chest, and before he knows it he's crying on Beckett's shoulder, her lithe body wrapped around his, holding him up as her lips paint words over his cheek.

_We're okay. We're okay._


	30. Chapter 30

They take a quick look around the house, check for any locks that might fit the key that Tyson sent Kate. But they come up empty, and although Castle's on his best behavior Kate can feel his muted reluctance to stay echoing her own. "Okay," she relents after checking the upstairs bedroom - at least she assumes it was the bedroom from the large square of preserved carpet in the right corner. "Let's go."

Rick breathes out a tiny sigh, crowds at her back - probably a subconscious move, the deep-seated need to protect her against those memories. She lets him. Her chest is still fluttering in relief at having told him, nothing left standing between them now; she doesn't know what reaction she expected but this is - okay. Better than okay.

He might need a little more time to wrap his mind around it, around the fact that it's happened and there's no changing it, no going back. She understands that. That's fine.

Just so long as he doesn't walk out on her.

They head back outside. Castle walks down the front steps while Kate pauses to wind her scarf around her neck again before turning the key in the lock. Something loosens in her chest when the bolt rasps into place and she closes her eyes for a second, lets herself savor it. Tyson may be dead - she may never have the satisfaction of seeing him sentenced to life - but at least there's this. She gets to walk freely around this house and be the one in control this time, be the one with the key. The one who locks the door.

And yes. It does help. "You were right," she murmurs to herself with a ghost of a smile. She almost reaches in her pocket and calls Emily Simmons right then and there, but there's more she wants to do first. Before her courage is gone.

Kate turns around and jogs down the flight of stairs, her breath coming out in short visible puffs in the winter air. Castle is standing by the car, his face so grave, not even the hint of a smile in those blue eyes; she lets her momentum carry her to him and rises on tiptoe, brushes her mouth over his. He gasps softly but at least, at least he doesn't step back. Doesn't recoil from her. It means more than she's willing to admit.

She nudges her nose to his, breathes against his lips before she makes herself move back. "Come on," she says, imagining she can feel his heartbeat, his warmth. "Let's get out of here. I'm done with this place."

"Yeah you are," he groans, his jaw clenching.

Beckett sighs and lifts her gloved hand to cup his jaw, presses a gentle kiss to his neck. There are things to be said - things to be done - but she can't get into that yet. She's gotta deal with herself first, finish the things she came here for. And then she'll find a way to show him how truly okay she is.

"Get in the car, Castle," she hums. "Before we both freeze to death out here. Been there, done that, remember?"

He huffs a painful little laugh but something eases in his eyes and he leans in, his lips glancing off her temple. "I don't know, Kate. I kinda like cuddling with you for warmth."

"Huddling. We were huddling, Castle."

He hums. "Whatever you say."

* * *

She's so calm about the whole thing. It's nearly inhuman. Of course, he realizes it didn't happen to her yesterday, that she didn't just find out about it, but still. Still.

He always knew she was strong, a fierce spirit that just won't bend, but until today he's not sure he ever took the full measure of her resilience. There's more reality to Nikki Heat than he knew when he wrote that first book, huh?

Castle watches her get in the car and buckle up, stares at the sharp line of her profile as she grabs the car keys from her pocket. There's something else with the keys, a square piece of paper that she hands over to him, her teeth digging briefly into her bottom lip. "You mind entering that address into your phone's GPS?"

He takes the paper, frowns. _54 1st Ave. _"What's there?"

Kate leans her head back, looks at him. "The McClearys. Parents of Colleen, the woman Tyson killed."

Castle opens his mouth, his eyes flicking down to Kate's handwriting again. Neat and bold, no trace of an hesitation. "What are you hoping to find?"

She gives a small shrug. "I wasn't sure I wanted to go, but this morning - I don't know. I looked them up while you were in the shower."

"And wrote the address down," he says quietly, reaching for his phone. He should've seen it coming really - this is Beckett, the best detective he's seen, the woman who invests in each victim like they were a member of her family. Of course she wants to know.

He types up the address and waits for the app to respond, glances up at Kate. "You're not going there to apologize, are you? It's not your fault, Kate. Tyson killed her. You didn't do anything wrong." She knows that; he knows she does. But if...

"I know," Beckett says with a small nod, her lashes touching her cheeks as the breath comes out of her in a great rush. "I just want to say I'm sorry for their loss, I guess. Get an idea who Colleen was."

Ah, honor the dead. Yeah. He gets that.

His phone chimes its success and Rick reaches for the seat belt as he starts reading the instructions. "Head east on Kamiskotia Road, keep going for about two miles until we turn left on Riverside Drive-"

"Hold your horses, Castle," Kate says with a smile in her voice. "Let me reverse first."

* * *

The house of the McClearys is right in the center of town, a one-story brick structure that looks almost tiny compared to the surrounding buildings, the wide, clear street. Kate finds a parking spot further down the street and cuts the engine, feels the pound of her heart against her ribs.

"Maybe I should go on my own," she says at the exact same second when Castle asks, "You want me to wait in the car?" They share a chuckle and a smile. She can't help but be comforted by how in sync they still are.

"They'll find it easier to talk if it's only one person," Kate says even if she obviously doesn't need to explain. Castle is nodding.

"And you won't have to explain why I'm here, which would be kinda awkward. Makes sense. I might take a stroll around the neighborhood, actually. Just, you know, stretch my legs. Breathe in some fresh air."

Beckett hums, amused that the _unnatural cold_ from yesterday has now morphed into _fresh air_. "Sounds like a plan," she says, checking her pocket for her phone. "Let's meet back here in half an hour? I'll text you if I'm longer than that."

"Works for me." He squeezes a gloved hand over hers. "Remember, Beckett. You're not a detective here. Try not to go into interrogation mode and scare those poor people to death."

She rolls her eyes at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

* * *

The bell lets out a cheerful ring that startles Kate a little, even if she was the one to press it. There's only a handful of seconds before the door opens on a thin grey-haired woman, mid-fifties, pale blue eyes in a soft face that looks like it was meant to bear a smile. Except it's not. "Can I help you?" she says kindly.

"Yeah, um. Hi. I'm - Kate Beckett - I don't know if you-" Kate's voice trails off when the woman's eyes widen in recognition, her mouth parting on a silent 'o'. "You do know me."

"Miss Beckett. I mean, detective. Yes, of course. I'm - I'm Rose McCleary." She holds out a hand, but before Beckett can shake it another voice rises in the background, distinctively male and definitely pissed.

The door opens wider and Kate finds herself faced with an older man, strikingly tall, his face gaunt and furious. "What the hell do you want?" he hisses. "What gives you the right to come here, huh? You haven't done enough damage already - you wanna get our son killed, too?"

Beckett works her jaw, tries not to let her heart sink. "Sir, I'm not here to-"

"You're not here, you're right about that. In fact, you're gonna get off my property right now. No one invited you here; you're not welcome."

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about Colleen," Kate persists, standing taller against the man's wrath.

"_Sorry_," he snorts. "Right. Not sorry you lived, are ya? I bet if it'd been Colleen's life against yours you'd still be the one standing here now. Don't you talk to me about sorry, Miss New York Detective."

"Andy," the woman says, timidly reproachful.

"What?" He turns his glare to his wife. "You gonna tell me you're interested in what she has to say? Or maybe I'm not being _polite_ enough, is that it? You want me to invite her in, Rose? Put the kettle on for the woman who profited from our daughter's death? Well screw you." And he slams the door to Kate's face.

She stands stunned for a moment, struggling for breath. She knew it wouldn't be easy, knew they might not want to talk to her, but this... Shit, it hurts. She's only trying to do the right thing, show respect to the woman who died, but McCleary's words come as a sharp reminder that the right thing for Beckett isn't necessarily the right thing for everybody else.

She should've brought Castle along after all. He would've known how to cheer her up, wouldn't have let her dwell on it.

Kate turns around slowly - it feels like failure, every second of it - but she's barely taken a step that she hears the door opening again.

"I'm so sorry," Mrs McCleary says softly, working her left arm into her coat even as she closes the door, comes toward Kate. "I apologize. Andy took Colleen's death very hard. Oh, and he used to be such a lovely man, but now... The good days are rare."

"Don't worry," Beckett says with a small smile. "I know what grief can do to someone. Never pretty, is it?"

Mrs McCleary gives her a relieved, thankful look. "You're right, it's not." She gestures towards the wooden bench that's in the small courtyard at the front of the house - the only thing that isn't covered in snow. "Would you like to sit for a moment? I'm sorry, I'd have invited you inside, but-" The woman's loneliness shines through her voice, her hesitant eyes, and Kate feels her heart soften towards Colleen's mother.

"Here's fine. Thank you."

They sit down together, Mrs McCleary wrapping her scarf around her neck. "Did you lose someone close to you?" she asks, and she must see the look of surprise on Beckett's face because she immediately backpedals. "I don't mean to pry, I'm sorry. It was just - that thing you said about grief. It felt..."

"I lost my mother," Kate explains, touched by the woman's genuine nervousness. "When I was nineteen. She was murdered - a random mugging, the police said. I know what it's like to have someone you love ripped away so suddenly."

"Nineteen, oh my," Mrs McCleary sighs. "Your life hasn't been easy, has it?"

"I guess you could say that. But I'm not - I'm not here to talk about me, Mrs McCleary. I really did want to offer you my condolences, even though I'm aware it comes a bit late. I was actually hoping, and that might sound strange to you, that you could tell me about your daughter. Who she was, what she liked. I guess I feel...connected to her somehow, maybe because she died at the hands of the same man that tortured me for so long."

"Jerry Tyson." There's no anger in the older woman's voice - only a neverending kind of sadness. "Yes, I understand. Well. Colleen... She was never an easy child. She got into that rebellious phase much earlier than any of her friends, and she never really got out of it, I guess. I loved her; she was my daughter. But Andy and her drove each other crazy. Colleen moved out of the house the first chance she got, and even though she didn't live that far we didn't see her very often. The only reason she was in town that night, the night she was killed, was because I'd convinced her to come out for her father's birthday."

"Oh, no," Kate breathes out, realizing. "I'm so sorry."

Mrs McCleary smiles again, a heartbreaking thing. "I've made my peace with it now. But Andy - he won't even try. The guilt's eating away at him, and I think he turns it into anger because he couldn't live with it otherwise. I've tried taking him to the therapist with me, but he just sits there silent." She blinks a few times, and then her blue eyes turn to Kate again. "I'm sorry, I'm bothering you with all those personal things. You wanted to hear about Colleen. Yes. Let me tell you about my daughter."

* * *

Castle pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and takes a breath of crisp, cold air, lets his chest expand with it. The snow crunches under his feet as he walks, a pleasant earthly sound that reminds him of everything good in life, all the reasons he loves the world. The spill of early morning light onto the loft's hardwood floors, the sparkling laugh of his daughter. The curve of Kate's hip when she sleeps curled on one side.

There's a woman coming towards him, walking a gorgeous wolf dog - white fur streaked with grey and black. The intelligent blue eyes rest on Castle, the dog's head tilting as if in curiosity, but it doesn't nuzzle into the writer's hand or even try to touch him as it walks past. "Morning," the woman says, giving Rick a small smile, and he's so startled by that - the kindness of a stranger - that he forgets to respond.

Still it spreads through his chest, lifts his heart as he keeps on walking. He reaches a wider street, hesitates - left or right - until he sees a sign for the bus station close by. Bus station is good; bus station means a variety of people traveling from one place to another, tired, hopeful, disappointed people that will make for the perfect distraction.

It's not even a five-minute walk, and soon Castle is stepping into the welcoming warmth of the Timmins bus station. He takes off his hat and loosens his scarf, zips his coat open. The place is medium-sized, only a couple buses waiting outside, but it's busier than he would've thought. He sees travelers with backpacks but also old ladies dragging their purchases behind them in wheeled carts, kids that look like they should be in school.

The ticket office is on his left, along with an information desk harboring enticing, colorful brochures. On the opposite side is a waiting area, and behind it a large automatic glass door that gives access to the coach buses. Castle spots a small coffee shop in the corner, the rich smell drifting up to him, making his mouth water.

Mmm, yeah. Coffee sounds like just what he needs.

Might want to stop by the bathroom first though.

Rick pivots on his feet, looking for the telltale sign, and he weaves his way through people towards the back of the station. As he reaches the blue door marked with the stick figure of a man, his gaze turns to the right and he stops. Freezes.

There are lockers lining the wall.

* * *

Mrs McCleary takes Kate's hand in hers before they part. The older woman is having trouble containing her emotion after talking about her daughter to Beckett; there's a thin veil of tears in her blue eyes, a tremble to her mouth. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you for coming to see us. It's a comfort to me that Colleen's death wasn't all for nothing - that at least something good came out of it. That the police caught that man and found you."

"It saved my life," Kate says with a tight smile. "I wouldn't have lasted much longer in Tyson's hands, so if he hadn't been caught when he was..."

"I'm glad," the woman repeats with a nod. "You have a good life, Kate. You've earned it."

"I hope things will get better for you and Mr McCleary," Beckett offers in return, and then Colleen's mother shakes her hand one last time before letting go, shuffling back into her house. Her silhouette is hunched, the weight of sadness heavy on her shoulders, but there's a strength to the woman that makes Kate hopeful.

She turns around and sucks in a great breath, lets it out again. Her chest feels funny as she walks out of the small garden at the front of the McClearys' house, but it's good - it's a good kind of hurt. The moving forward kind.

She wonders if Castle would mind going with her to the cemetery, putting flowers on Colleen's grave.

Kate's halfway to the car when she catches sight of Rick coming towards her - talk about perfect timing. His gait is a little rushed, that eagerness to it that can be either very good or very bad, and he's carrying... Oh.

To-go coffee cups. Sweet, sweet man.

She reaches the car first and unlocks it, opens the passenger door. The moment Castle catches up to her, a question written in his raised eyebrow, she takes the cups from him and sets them down on the seat, then winds her arms around his neck and kisses him_. _With all she has.

Her heart pounding, she strokes her tongue into his mouth and pushes her body into his, getting a faint impression of how much he wants her even through the layers of clothes; her hands wander into his hair and fist around the soft strands. He responds in kind, nearly lifting her off the ground in his enthusiasm, and when she lets go of him he's dark-eyed and breathless and just _delicious._

She could eat him.

"What was that for?" Castle rasps, and the spark is back in his eyes, the one that's been missing all morning.

"Coffee," she says. "You got me coffee."

"I seem to recall bringing you coffee many a time before," he answers, all crinkled eyes and smirking mouth. "Yet somehow it's never elicited such a...reaction from you. I would definitely remember if it had."

Kate can't help a smile. Her eyes dart to the floor and then back up to his, and she thinks maybe - before - she'd have made light of it and engaged in banter. But now- "It was just - seeing you walk towards me with the cups, Rick. Guess I didn't realize how much I missed it."

Castle gapes at her for a second - didn't expect honesty from her, huh? - but then his eyes light up with joy and he leans in again, touches his mouth to hers. It's more tender this time. It's his lips worshipping hers, the slow hum he makes when she opens for him; it's his thumbs brushing the underside of her jaw, the curl of his fingers at her nape. The light contact is highly erotic and it courses through her like fire, drags a moan from her throat. The sound vibrates between their mouths - so damn intimate - and for a terrifying second Kate is afraid she will cry.

"I want you," Castle murmurs when he breaks away, resting his forehead to hers. "I will never not want you, Kate. You can never be sullied or tainted or damaged to me. You'll always be the extraordinary KB. My muse. My best friend. You know that, right?"

She tightens her arms around his neck and presses herself to him, cheek to cheek, words and breath knocked out of her. "Castle," she rasps, and that's it - that's all she can manage - but somehow it's enough.

It's everything.

* * *

When they're both a little more put together - when they've had a sip of coffee and sat in the car and everything isn't so raw, his insides scrambled out in the open for everyone to see - Castle tells her what he's found.

What he may have found.

Kate listens to him attentively and then rests her head back into the seat, turns the heat down. "And you think the key opens one of those lockers."

"Maybe. Or there could be other lockers. There's a train station here too - I asked - and then of course there's the airport."

"Hm, they'd be less likely to keep stuff for any length of time in an airport, I'd think. But bus or train - yeah, it's possible."

Castle waits a moment more, tries to be good, give her time, but in the end he can't resist. "Can I see the key again?"

Kate's lashes flutter, a startled look in her eyes when she's pulled from her thoughts, but she reaches inside her jacket, grabs the key from that small pocket right at her heart. "Here."

He studies it carefully, his heart wild against his ribs. He's not sure what it means, or if it's any good at all, but he does know one thing. "It's the same as the ones from the bus station, Kate."

She looks at him; he sees her swallow. "Then I guess you should take me there."


	31. Chapter 31

Castle was right. Kate stands before the lockers of the bus station and reaches out a hand to the first key and it's the same size as hers, the shape eerily similar except for the fact that it carries the number 1.

Beckett's looked at her own key enough times to know it's unmarked, but that means nothing - Tyson could've had a double made.

"Only lockers in use are numbers 7, 12 and 17," Castle points out after checking the doors, a breathlessness in his voice that could be excitement or apprehension. "All the other ones are empty."

Kate nods and moves to locker 7, slides her key out of her pocket. For a split second she wishes she had thrown it into the sea, let the waves carry it out of her reach and bury it some place deep. But she's Kate Beckett: whatever's inside that locker, she's stronger than it. She and Castle, together.

She takes a deep breath and raises her hand. With a little insistence she manages to work the key into the lock, but that's it - it won't turn at all. Stuck. "Not this one," she says, her throat tight.

Locker 12 is next. That one's on the bottom row, so Kate has to kneel down to insert the key. Castle squats down at her side, rocks on the balls of his feet to keep his balance, and the movement distracts Beckett enough that she turns the key without completely realizing it. The locker creaks open - shit, _shit_ - and Kate jerks her hand back as if the key'd burned her fingers.

For a moment she stays stunned, frozen, only aware of the slightly rusty, half-open door. And whatever's behind it.

It's Castle's voice at her ear that makes her come alive again. "Can you see what's inside?" he asks with the boyish curiosity that she found maddening at first - a lifetime ago. Now it's good, familiar; it reminds her what's real. What matters. Kate frowns and gives herself a tiny nod, reaches out to yank the damn locker open.

It's... Huh. It's mostly empty. She lets out a long exhale and moves in closer, sees that the back of the locker is lined with rows of small, neatly-ordered... audiotapes? She grabs a random one - they're all labeled - and reads the inscription. _October 15th, 1/6._

No year, no location, but. October 15th. It was on October 30th that they found themselves on that bridge with Tyson; she'll never forget the date.

"Kate." Castle sounds as stunned as she feels. She opens the small plastic box, gets the cassette out, prodding the magnetic stripe with her thumb. "Are those-?"

"I don't know." Her mouth is dry. She snatches a second tape, a third one - _October 12th, October 19th -_ and she sinks down, the back of her thighs hitting her heels. The FBI never found the recordings, Jordan said. They weren't in the house, weren't in any of the other places where Tyson would hole up. "Rick. I think they might be."

Castle got his hands on the first cassette; he's staring at it with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. "What does it mean?" he finally asks, his eyes finding Kate's. "Why would he - that makes no sense. He should've gotten rid of that key, not..."

"I don't know." Except. Maybe she does. Maybe she was right all along and there really was some tiny, well-hidden part of Tyson that felt for her enough to do this. Give her back the recordings, the control he'd had over her life.

Or maybe he thought he would torture her some more.

Doesn't matter, she decides as her fingers tighten around the tape. Doesn't matter what went on in that sick brain of his as long as she's got her hands on those recordings.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Castle asks after a beat. There's something hesitant, almost shy in his voice. "Do you - are you thinking about calling Jordan-"

"No." The answer comes to her spontaneously, a certainty that settles in her chest. "Tyson's dead, Castle. The FBI doesn't need more evidence against him. No one needs to listen to those." And no one will. Never again.

He looks like he's going to argue with her, but in the end he just nods. "Okay. So - what, we just get rid of them?"

_We._ Kate could kiss him for that. She sucks in a breath and feels it spread in her lungs, the taste of relief so delicious. "Yeah, we do. Any way you want. Burn them, throw them in the river - I don't care. It's your call. I just want them gone."

He ponders over her words, and at last he smiles at her, a slow, soft thing. "I may have an idea."

* * *

By the time they make it back to the hotel, it's nearly five p.m. They had a late lunch in a cute Italian place and then went back to drop the house keys at the police station, bought flowers and went to Colleen's grave. Kate is exhausted, but content.

She pushes her door open and gets out of the car, pauses to watch the fading sunlight that limns the clouds, spills gold into the deep grey sky.

"We should have gone skiing," Castle says, snow creaking under his feet when he circles around the car to her. "Take a couple more days, go up to the mountains. It's not much of a ride, is it?"

Kate hums, only half-listening. She's breathing in the faint smell of pine, the sharp cold air, the glow of sunset, and she finds it hard to believe that this peaceful place was her prison for two years.

"Or hey, we could try snowboarding! I did that with Alexis before. It's kinda awesome. I was pretty good at it, Beckett. Could show you some neat tricks."

"Show off, you mean," she murmurs absentmindedly, starts moving along the parking lot towards the hotel. "Not a good idea, Castle. With our luck I'm sure one of us would end up with a broken leg. And it'd probably be you."

He whines some kind of answer that's lost to her; she's thinking that even if she'd thought of skiing before she would still have planned for a two-day trip, because she's so impatient to get back to the city. Get back to her life. Their plane leaves at eleven tomorrow and she's not rescheduling.

Something wet and _cold_ is suddenly pressed to the back of her neck and Kate's shoulders come up instantly, her mouth parting on a scream that she barely managed to contain. She turns her head slowly, slowly, but it's already sinking inside her clothes - snow, damn it - trickling down her back and making her shiver.

Castle.

He's looking at her with that little boy glee, so pleased with himself, but his smile wavers in front of her glare. "No time for skiing, I know, but I figure a snowball fight-?" His voice is only slightly squeaky.

She narrows her eyes at him. "You're a dead man, Rick Castle."

She sees him swallow - damn right, he _should_ be scared - and then without warning he turns away from her and he flees. He can run pretty fast when he wants to.

Kate smirks and squats down to get her hands on the knee-deep layer of snow that surrounds the parking lot.

Castle should know by now how truly impeccable her aim is.

* * *

"Stop it," Kate chides in that breathy, laughter-filled voice that makes it okay to keep going, makes it okay for him to slip his fingers under the hem of her coat and brush his cold wet fingertips to the small of her back. She squirms, her hips dancing as she leads the way into the hotel.

"Castle," she hisses, a little more warning to it this time. He drops his hand with a sigh, tries to be good. Despite the winter clothes, the thick coat and sweater, he's very much soaked - his fault for forgetting how stubborn and relentless Kate Beckett can be. If her shivering's any indication, she's not faring much better than he is.

But oh, it was worth it. He can't remember the last time they had such innocent, mindless fun.

He smiles and nods to the friendly guy at the desk on their way back to the room, pauses to shake hands with a couple who were in the steam room with him and Kate last night, and when he finally catches up to Beckett she's already got the door open, is waiting on him with a crooked smile. "I can't leave you alone for two minutes without you making friends, huh?"

He chuckles and gives a little shrug - can't help it really, it's in his nature to mingle. Her eyes are laughing at him when he walks past her and into their suite, and he's taking off his coat when a sharp pinch at his ass makes him jump. "Beckett!"

"Really, you're gonna play it indignant? I thought you were a man of the world, Castle. Hundreds of conquests and all that. You telling me it was all an act?"

He turns to her, assessing her face, trying to decide if there's anything behind that playful look. "Not an act, no," he says anyway, going for complete honesty because it's worked for him before. "Sometimes I wish it had been. But I just - hadn't found the right person yet."

"Is that so." There's a kind of hum to her voice that betrays her amusement. He steps a little closer, encouraged, enthralled by her deep, quiet tones.

"You might've heard of her. Amazing woman, bright mind, sharp tongue. Killer cheekbones. During the day she's a detective with the NYPD, and at night-"

"Castle," she cuts off, a subtle threat to the word.

"At night she comes home to me," he finishes, the words catching in his throat. "Teaches me how to be a better man. Doesn't sound like much when you say it like that, but I can assure you, it's a full-time job. Probably takes a lot more out of her than chasing criminals, although I guess you could also say it's more rewarding. Definitely includes more sex, well - at least, I hope-"

He never gets to say the rest of that sentence, because while he was talking - blabbering away like the moron he is - Kate's unzipped her coat and stepped into him in one fluid move, shrugged off her jacket even as she rose on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his.

He kisses her back, more of a stupid reflex than anything else. Her lips are cold but her tongue is warm, slippery and clever against his own; he breathes through his nose and the smell of her unfurls in his lungs, wet snow and perspiration and underneath a faint whiff of her shampoo, fruits and something sharper, something purely Beckett. He's vaguely aware that she's pushing him towards the bed, making him sit down and straddling his lap, but he's too busy exploring her mouth and untangling the threads of her scent. It's only when she pushes his coat off his shoulders, pulls his sweater over his head that he comes back to himself.

"Kate," he gasps, his eyes opening again, his chest tight.

She brushes her lips against his, so soft, her fingers tingling at his nape. "Shhh," she says. "We're okay. All good."

She slips a hand under his t-shirt, splays it on his bare stomach; her palm is _cold_, damn it, but he can't deny it does it even more for him. His abs shiver and contract at her touch, along with other parts of him, and he closes his eyes and tries to find the strength, to remember why-

Her teeth nip at his collarbone and he jerks, whimpers, feels the purposeful weight of her in his lap. Oh god, oh god. "Kate." It's more of a growl this time.

"I want you," she whispers in his ear, a little desperate, a lot determined. "Castle. Only you."

Fuck. Her hands run over his chest, warmer now, and she slowly peels the t-shirt off him, her mouth pressing hot and wet around his nipples. He clenches his jaw and suppresses a moan, can't do anything to stop her erotic undressing of him when she's towering above him like a goddess, taking everything she wants.

She takes off her own sweater, her long-sleeved shirt; he stares at her exposed skin, the delicate jut of her collarbones in the tiny tank top, and he wants to cry. His hands are resting loosely at her thighs until she takes them in her own, brings them up to her waist like parenthesis. She cradles his face, the touch of her fingers feather-light. "Castle," she murmurs, kissing his lips, trading breaths. He can hear the plea in her voice, the brimming desire, and it speaks to some deep, primal part of him.

"Are you sure," he rasps, can't help himself. He feels her huffed laugh, her smile against his mouth, and she nibbles at his bottom lip.

"Yes," she says.

So he closes his eyes and he slides his hands under her top.

* * *

Having him touch her - having his fingers trail fire across her bare skin - she can't seem to keep her eyes open. They slam shut without her permission, everything made more intense by the darkness, every whorl of his fingertips, every brush of his mouth. Sounds climb her throat and sneak out of her lips - raw, keening moans that don't sound anything like her - and Kate arches, lets her head fall back, her hips instinctively rocking against his. She feels him reach for the clasp of her bra, feels the fabric loosen and fall away, and then there's the hot press of his mouth right there at her bullet scar.

Shit, Castle.

She wants him to move. She wants to dry hump against him until she's satisfied - anything will do at this stage, really - but no. No. He's going to worship her, of course; he's going to adore every inch of her and make her chest burn with unshed tears.

She shuts her eyes tighter and pushes a harsh hand to the back of his neck, presses his face between her breasts. But he won't obey her silent command. He keeps it slow, gentle, keeps her body burning with ever-brighter need.

So she bites her bottom lip and slides her hand down, down to the zipper of his pants and the thing she wants more than anything. Castle jerks and gasps into her skin when she cups him, instinctively finding the touch that used to drive him crazy and apparently still does. She chases his mouth, kisses him sweetly even as she works button and zipper open, strokes her thumb to his underwear.

He curses against her lips, his voice so rough, almost a sob. The power she has over him, the strength of the connection between them is enough to make her giddy. Her blood thrums with a sharp flare of want, the need to feel him, _have him_, be one with him, and she presses her palm into his erection, lets her fingers curl.

"Kate, Kate," he chants, breaking away from her mouth. His eyes are closed, his face twisted in something that looks more like agony than pleasure. She eases her touch, turns it to a caress, but still he won't look at her, still his breathing is like a drowning man's.

"Rick," she murmurs, calling him back to her. She brushes her lips at his jaw, his neck, his shoulder. He shivers deeply against hers and she withdraws her hand completely, skims his abs instead. "Pants need to come off," she says, nuzzling his mouth. She lifts up and gets off his lap, setting one foot after the other down on the floor, trailing a hand at his knee in invitation.

He opens his eyes and watches her. In the last, fading glimmers of daylight she can see love and arousal play out on his face, but also more hesitation than she'd like. Kate releases a breath and reaches out, laces their fingers. "What," she says, barely a question.

He blinks, looking for a moment like a little boy caught. Then he pushes himself off the bed, stands tall and broad before her, and he does the one thing she didn't expect: he pulls her to him for a tight hug.

* * *

It does something for him, being able to hold her like that, cradle her close; it loosens something in his chest that her purposeful, seducing touch couldn't. She's a little stiff against him, surprised probably, and he's got to be killing the mood but he just can't let go. He buries his nose into her soft hair, the smell of her skin, strokes his thumbs to the small of her back and commits this moment to memory.

Kate Beckett half-naked against him, warm and real, glorious.

"I love you," he says, hears his own voice breaking. Kate lets out a startled breath at his neck and suddenly her arms come up around his waist, claiming.

"Castle," she rasps. But he's not looking for an answer; he's content just speaking the words. Only problem is, now that he's started he can't keep the rest from tumbling out of his mouth.

"Just don't leave me again. I can't do it without you, Kate. I can't. I tried, but I just - it wasn't - I wasn't me anymore. I can't be me if you're dead, Beckett."

"You can," she says fiercely, lips moving against his skin. "And I'm not. I'm here now. There won't be any leaving, Rick."

"Promise me," he asks like a stubborn child, like a selfish man ignoring three months' worth of therapy. Kate's fingers dance at his sides, gentling, and he resists the urge to take the words back, to be reasonable again.

He can't be reasonable when he spent a year and a half thinking she was dead and now he's finally holding her in his arms again, her softness of her breasts against his skin. If he's going to give her what they both want, make love to her - risk his heart all over again - he needs an assurance of some kind. He needs _something._

Kate's hands are stroking his shoulders, up and down, up and down, and after a moment he realizes what she wants and he releases her, gives her a chance to move back and look at him. Her face is determined, her dark eyes alight with a love that cuts right through his chest. She lifts up and pushes a solid kiss to his mouth, strong and certain, and then she drops back to her feet.

"Always," she tells him.

* * *

**A/N:** So, this is going to be the last actual chapter. There'll be an epilogue posted as part of this story, and then an M companion that should be up soon, but - yeah. We're at the end. Thank you all for your amazing, continued feedback. I never expected this story to be so big, and looking at the reviews just makes my heart burst. Special thanks go to **Cartographical**, who has loved this story from the very start and wouldn't let me give up on it, to **SparkleMouse**, for being such an attentive editor, always there when I need her, and to my kick-ass friend **Rubia Braun**, who understands structure better than I ever will. This story wouldn't be half of what it is without you guys.


	32. Epilogue

The issue with sex, Kate Beckett decides as she sits on a plane to Toronto the next morning, is that it's addictive. Sex with Richard Castle - even more so.

It's not like she didn't have him begging in the shower last night (she did) and it's not like she didn't wake him up this morning by sliding down his body and taunting him with her mouth (oh yeah, she most definitely did). And yet sitting on the plane next to him, close but not close enough, is agony. Especially when he keeps giving her that goofy, happy smile, the one that crinkles his eyes and moves things inside her chest.

At one point he leans in close to watch the clouds in the window, the distant Canadian land spread beneath them. His warm breath skirts Kate's cheek, tingling; his shoulder presses heavily against hers and it's all she can do to keep her eyes from closing.

"Falling asleep on me, Beckett?"

Or not. Kate starts, her eyes flying open - damn - and she finds him looking at her with an amused, knowing smile.

He's doing it on purpose. He thinks this is funny.

Without thinking she shoots her hand down and cups him through his jeans, watching his eyes widen with a smirk. Not funny anymore, Castle? "I look asleep to you?" she husks.

So of course the next hour consists of Castle trying to convince her to join the Mile High Club ("It'll be _fun_, Beckett") and of her steadfastly resisting ("A tiny tiny bathroom isn't sexy, Castle, it's just uncomfortable"). She's relieved when they finally land in Toronto and get out of the plane, if only because it means there's more than five inches of tension-filled space between them.

The layover is only an hour and a half this time, so they go through customs and security and then grab sandwiches from one of those expensive airport places. They sit down and eat together in the terminal, keeping an ear out for an announcement about their flight, and of course when it's almost boarding time and Kate's about to suggest they head out to their gate, Castle decides he absolutely _has_ to go to the bathroom.

She watches him hurry across the hall with a little sigh, starts gathering their things. It's not like they carry that much with them - they checked in their only suitcase - but still it's winter time and there are coats, scarves, her bag and his bag and _did he really need to get his laptop out for fifteen minutes? _

She shakes his head at him as she reaches for the computer, somewhat annoyed but also amused at the memory of his wide-eyed, little boy face ("Free Wi-Fi, Beckett! Why would you not use it?"). She closes the browser with a tight press of her lips that is really a smile in disguise, and she's in the middle of pulling his laptop shut when she pauses.

Wait. Those tabs he had up-

She only got a glimpse of them, enough to see his mailbox and twitter and whatever new social website he found his way to lately, but the last one...

No. Surely she's wrong. Why on earth would he - no. But she's already opening the computer again and pressing a finger to the space key, frowning as she waits for the screen to light up. When it does she pulls up the browser and goes to his history, clicking on the last handful of sites.

There's one - no, two, _three _- real estate websites in there, all of them with properties favorited, she sees as she looks into the first one. There's a modern-looking, luxurious condo on the Upper West Side, a restored brownstone with stunning woodwork, an absolutely lovely apartment in Greenwich Village that leaves her breathless.

What is he doing? Is he looking into buying something for Alexis? Kate wasn't aware that Castle's daughter was coming back to New York full time, but maybe-

"Hey, what are you doing? I thought you wanted to go to the gate-" Castle has come around their small table as he spoke and he stops at her shoulder, words and eyes arrested by the laptop screen. Kate arches an eyebrow at him.

"What is this for? You looking into buying a new place, Castle?" She's half-joking, hoping to tease the truth out of him, but he gives her a small, nervous smile.

"Right, about that. I was going to tell you about it," he says quickly, dropping to one knee so they're about even heights. "Once I found the right place. I just - wanted you to have the option, I guess, because honestly, who would want to live in a place where they were once recorded having sex by some kind of dangerous psychopath who later used those recordings to try and - I mean, I know I wouldn't. I don't even know that I want to stay there myself, honestly, after everything, so I figured maybe, you know, a clean start could be nice. Right? Just imagine - having a place of our own to make memories in." The words are coming faster and faster, his eyes pleading with her, and she's utterly speechless. "I mean, obviously, if you want to move in with me. I know we haven't - really settled that yet, so I understand, of course, if you don't-"

She cuts him off the only way she knows how, with her hand at his cheek and her mouth against his. She feels his soft sigh into her lips, the way he opens up for her, lazy and sweet, tentatively meeting her tongue with his; she nudges her nose to his and takes her time with the kiss, pours everything into it that she doesn't have the words for.

"Yes," she says when she lets him go, light-headed and yet somehow seeing it all so clearly, the path of their life together spread out before her eyes like a smooth, open road. "Yes, Castle. Yes."

He looks at her like he's holding his breath, like he can't quite believe her. "Yes?"

The hesitant light in his eyes, the tremulous smile make her feel like she's answering a completely different question.

And maybe, in a way, she is. "I'll move in with you," she promises with a stroke of her thumb over his lips, her fingertips timidly touching the joy that paints his face. "I want you too, Rick. Enough waiting." He opens his mouth but clearly she's left him wordless, because all he does is beam at her. She kisses him again, can't help it, those parted lips and all the beautiful words that she knows are stuck inside, but will find their way out in time. "Come on," she says with a smile. "We don't wanna miss our flight."

* * *

It's still winter in New York too, of course, but in comparison to Timmins it almost feels like spring to Castle. So he put on his favorite leather jacket this morning, a scarf that is so soft it probably doesn't contain any wool in it, and he resolutely ignored Kate's gentle warning that _You're gonna get sick, Castle._

Now that they're walking out of the garage on 1st Avenue where they parked his car, he can feel the malignant chill of the February wind seeping into his (maybe) too-thin clothes, and okay, yeah, she might've been right. He's not going to admit it though. Instead he reaches for her hand and pulls her closer into his side, winds an arm around her waist to keep her there. His own private source of heat. The double meaning makes him chuckle, and he forgets for an instant the stark reality of their destination.

"What's so funny?" she asks, that lovely arch of question to her eyebrow.

He shrugs, not sure he can explain the detours of his mind, and he tugs her even closer, making her stagger and fall into him. She recovers her balance quickly, shaking her head at him, but the smile that lifts the corner of her mouth lets him know that he's forgiven - that she needs the comfort as much as he does.

They get to the bridge and start the slow climb up, cars and trucks roaring past, the rush of effort warming him. He's dropped his arm from her shoulders but he still has his fingers curled around hers, can feel her body warm and present at his side. The wind is harsher when they get to the top, Castle's eyes stinging with it, and he can't help tightening his grip on Kate. She's so slender, so light, and ever since they set foot on that damn bridge the picture that has been on replay at the back of his mind is that of her falling, falling, disappearing into darkness.

The walk is maybe not the only reason he's having trouble finding his breath.

It takes a while to get to the lift part of the bridge - the part that used to feature left, right and center in his nightmares - and they amble along in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Or so he assumes until he looks over at Kate and finds her watching him, her eyes so rich and alive and attentive. He gathers a smile for her although he knows it won't be quite the real, genuine thing, and she smiles back softly in return, squeezes his hand.

He suddenly wonders which kind of personal ghosts she's facing right now, which memories she retains from that night. Was she conscious at all when she fell in the water? Did she try to fight off Tyson when he dragged her into the escape car that had to have been waiting for him?

"I don't remember much," she volunteers quietly, his questions probably written all over his face. "It's all a blur mostly. I remember the shock more than anything else, him hitting me and then falling and how - helpless it felt, I guess. And then intense cold, the water probably, clutching at me, wrapping around my bones. That's about it."

He nods stiffly, some tiny fragment of his distress from that night still lodged in his chest, making hard to breathe. Kate stops walking, pulling on his arm to make him still as well, and she wraps her arms around his waist, hugs him hard. He's a little surprised, but he's certainly not going to complain about it; instead he relaxes into her embrace, the close and steady reality of her in his arms. Her lips brush his neck.

"Here now," she reminds him, so strong, always. "Don't let it swallow you up, Castle."

Right. Right. He hugs her back, made stronger by her touch and her words, a faint echo of his conversation with Dr. Simmons resounding through him. He knew coming back here would be tough, and he's okay, he is. He just - has to learn how to breathe around it, how to build a life around the phantom of that night.

It takes them an extra ten minutes to get to the exact spot, the place where he spent hours waiting, waiting for back-up, waiting for the divers to resurface. Waiting for her to be found. He hasn't been here since that night but everything is still vivid, still raw and throbbing, and he rests both hands on the railing, finds his eyes drawn to the ceaseless flow of the river.

"Breathe, Castle," he hears Kate say at his side, and he releases an exhale he wasn't even aware he was holding.

Cars are still rushing past them unknowingly, each driver a perfect stranger with concerns of their own who might not even have noticed the man and the woman standing on Triborough Bridge on a grey February morning. Somehow the thought helps, makes it easier to keep sucking air in and out of his lungs. They're only tiny creatures, after all, little pieces of a much vaster universe, temporary, ephemeral. There will come a time when they're all gone and there will be no one to remember them, to remember that he or Kate or Tyson ever existed.

But whatever small time he has, whatever short segment of infinity - he gets to share it with her. Kate. And when it comes down to it, well, nothing else really matters.

"Give me that key," he says, holding up his open palm. She looks at him with a smile, proud and tender, her eyes so luminous in the morning light, and she reaches in her pocket for the locker key that Tyson sent her - ages ago it seems.

He takes it from her and in the same movement he lifts his arm and sends the key flying into the river, as far as he can. It draws an elegant arc before the water swallows it, the cars behind Castle covering any sound it might make, and he feels his whole body sag in relief.

Kate wouldn't let him throw the tapes in the river; audiotapes didn't biodegrade, she said, and Tyson had done enough harm as it was (which he had to grumblingly agree to). But she gave him this instead, gave him this moment on the bridge, and it's - he doesn't know how to put it into words, what it means to him.

In the end he does the next best thing: he curls a hand around her neck and tugs her up against him, brushes his mouth to hers, once, twice, and then a longer press that ends with a slow, deliberate slide of his tongue. She hums against him, their foreheads resting together for a few of his heartbeats, and he wants nothing more than this moment, wants to revel in her for the rest of his life.

"Home," Kate murmurs, her nose touching his. "Let's go home, Castle."

* * *

Beckett looks at her reflection in the mirror, smoothes a lock of hair, adjusts the strap of her dress over her shoulder. She likes that dress a lot, bought it last week on an impulse: the cut is perfect, the black fabric hugs her body like it was made for it, and the low, round neckline is both elegant and shows enough skin to keep Castle tantalized.

The heels will make her feet die a thousand deaths before the night is over, but they're worth it.

She exhales slowly, reaches for her eyeliner, changes her mind, slides the eyeliner back into her makeup case. Lipstick maybe? She's wearing a darker shade of pink that looks fairly natural on her, and it's really hard to tell whether or not it's wearing off.

She's still hesitating when Castle knocks on the ajar bathroom door.

"May I?" he says, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. She smiles and opens the door wide, deliberately turning away from her image as she lets him in.

"Hey," she says, stepping into him and resting a hand over his chest. He's so warm and solid, and hers. "How's it going?"

"Good. Dinner's pretty much ready, table's set. I couldn't find my favorite wine glasses though, so we'll have to make do with the old ones."

"Hmm, have you looked in the 'kitchen' boxes?"

He smiles that wry, sexy half-smile, casually curling his hands at her hips. "I'm not sure you realize how many of those boxes I've packed already, Beckett. I looked into one and then gave up."

She huffs a laugh, inches a little closer to him. "Well, you're the one that got excited and had to start packing even though we're not moving for another month, Castle. I told you it was too early."

"It was not. It was in fact absolutely necessary to run outside and buy as many boxes as I could carry and then come back here to see how much stuff could fit into said boxes. It's called celebrating life, Kate. You should really try it. Also, have I mentioned how stunning you look tonight?"

She shakes her head at him but she can't contain her smile or the blush that heats her cheeks. "Thank you," she says softly, leaning in to kiss that beautiful mouth. He tastes like their dinner, a rich flavor of tomato with a hint of feta and maybe basil, and she's not sure what she's most hungry for - him or the food.

He nuzzles her cheek when they break apart, holding her close, and she winds both arms around his neck with a soft sigh. "You ready for this?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that coils her insides deliciously.

"Yes." Dinner tonight with Lanie and Esposito and Ryan and Jenny; she can do it. It'll be good, so good, seeing them after all this time. She's looking forward to it. "I am."

"Alexis's flying home tomorrow," he says, as if there's any chance she would forget that. She hums against his skin, lets her body sink into his. "You'd tell me if it was too much, yeah? If it gets to be too much, Kate."

"I'm fine," she sighs into his neck. "I promise."

He falls silent; there's only the lulling beat of his heart against hers, the smooth, rhythmical slide of his fingers in her hair, the quiet sounds of his breath. Kate closes her eyes for a moment, feeling like time has come to a halt, and of course that's when the knock comes at the door of the loft.

"That would be our guests," Castle says, and she hears the smile in his voice. So she untangles herself from him, keeping only his hand, theirs fingers entwined as she pulls him out of the bathroom and towards the rest of the world.

"Better not keep them waiting."


End file.
